


Another Heart Whispers Back

by slytherco



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Auror Harry Potter, Background Relationships, Bets & Wagers, Blind Date, Brief Harry Potter/Other, Casual Intimacy, Comedy, Feelings Realization, First Dates, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Friends to Lovers, Humor, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Magical Tattoos, Making Out, Meddling, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Minor Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley, Minor Original Character(s), Minor Seamus Finnigan/Dean Thomas, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Oblivious Harry Potter, Pining Draco Malfoy, Post-Coital Cuddling, Potioneer Draco Malfoy, Rimming, Shower Sex, Smell, Taste, TasteofSmut 2020, Tattooed Harry Potter, Tattoos, Touch, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Virgin Harry Potter, hearing, sight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 09:19:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 53,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25847215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slytherco/pseuds/slytherco
Summary: At twenty-five, Harry Potter is still a virgin and sorely lacking in options to change that state anytime soon. To help him find a plus one for Ron and Hermione’s wedding, and maybe kill two birds with one stone, Harry’s friends set him up on a series of blind dates. The only problem is, there’s something not quite right with each of their candidates.“Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back. Those who wish to sing always find a song. At the touch of a lover, everyone becomes a poet.” ― PlatoIn which Harry learns that some things are worth waiting for, that looking and seeing are two very different things, and that his heart’s song has been heard a long time ago.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 211
Kudos: 1629
Collections: Taste of Smut Fest





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the HP Taste of Smut Fest - prompt 86.
> 
> When I started this fic, I was planning to write a short, fun story that will cap at 10k at best. I ended up with a 50k monster of a fic―the longest one I have ever written (I suppose I can add ‘so far’ here). I hope you have a few good laughs while reading it, just as I had while writing it.
> 
> There's also an artwork for this fic, you'll see it when it becomes relevant :> I hope you like my take on it!
> 
> I would like to thank a few people. First of all - [Bella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onereader/pseuds/shealwaysreads) \- who beta'd the shit out of this fic, who cheered me on, who was the first person to get excited about this story, who always offered her advice and all the kindness in the world, and never, not once, complained about my whining and moaning. Without her, this story would also probably have a super lame title, just so you know. Thank you, my darling, for being a friend.
> 
> I also want to personally hug and shower in gold all of the Fest's Mods - Eva, Noella, and Rae - thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for your neverending patience, for all the extensions this fic will hopefully make up for, for being magnificent human beings and for all the kindness and support you have shown me. Thank you for hosting this phenomenal fest, I'm happy to be a part of it.
> 
> _Dear reader, please see the end notes for a little spoiler regarding the Harry/other tag if needed._

Harry Potter has a total of two secrets:

One: He has tattoos.

Two: He’s a virgin.

To be fair, one of those things is not really a secret _per se_ , at least not to the people closest to him. However, Harry has never appreciated the press snooping around his life like a bunch of hungry Hippogriffs for any new, ludicrous, reasons, so he has chosen to keep that tiny detail only to his inner circle. It’s nothing huge or game-changing, just a private tidbit and there is absolutely no reason to share it with the rest of the wizarding society. As to his friends, keeping something from them has never been an easy feat so Harry gave up on that particular _modus operandi_ a long time ago.

The other thing, though, Harry hasn’t told another soul. It feels much more personal and he is yet to pluck up the courage to let anyone in on _that_ secret. Harry’s not one to shy away from self-irony and it is indeed laughable—he remembers countless _Prophet_ articles and snippets, and even one or two _Witch Weekly_ specials, patting themselves on the back for taking a grainy photo of Harry Potter leaving a pub with a little less-than-sober gait and in a definitely less-than-sober state. Little did they know, the truly juicy details were usually far beyond their grasp, cautiously obscured with the invaluable help of more than a few charms and, obviously, Harry himself keeping his mouth shut.

Harry would be lying if he said things were perfectly normal or uneventful, even eight years after the War. Apparently, the Wizarding World is more sentimental than anyone would have guessed—he’s still haunted by reporters who never falter in coming up with outlandish theories about his private life, his friends, his clothes, and even his non-existent exercise regime, eagerly pointing out the apparently _godlike_ shape of his buttocks or the roguish curl of his fringe. It’s a harrowing experience, to have the people Harry calls his friends perform alcohol-addled, dramatic readings of their favourite readers’ letters published in the _Prophet_ on a regular basis. Harry still isn’t sure he understands exactly what _bootylicious_ means, or why a complete stranger would like him to sit on their face, but he tries not to think about it too much.

Unwavering popularity and ridiculous articles aside, the last eight years have passed relatively peacefully. Harry and his friends finished Hogwarts and kickstarted their careers. Harry and Ron went straight into Auror training, now working as a dream team with the highest arrest rate (and an injury rate that matches). Hermione—being Hermione—the brightest witch of her age, the most ambitious student in England, and, frankly, one of the toughest women Harry knows, cut her way through the ranks of the Unspeakables and is now about to become the youngest subdepartment head in the last sixty-eight years. It’s all the more impressive knowing Hermione has been simultaneously planning a wedding for the last two years, after finally having glared Ron into getting the hint over every single engagement announcement in the _Prophet’s_ society pages.

Harry himself… has no such prospects in the near (or any) future. After the mayhem of the War and the aftermath died down, the moment he had dreaded the most was a long-overdue talk with Ginny whom he had avoided like the plague for that very reason. Harry’s not proud of it—although his saving grace at the time was having just killed a homicidal maniac and, in consequence, liberating all Wizardkind from a lifetime of death and misery, it was apparently nowhere near as scary as facing his sort-of-almost-girlfriend after a year of wandering the British wilderness. As it turned out, he could only fake so many illnesses (both magical and muggle), broken limbs, and Ministry meetings until Ginny had enough. She had nearly kicked down the door of Grimmauld Place, marched straight into his bedroom and cast a full Body Bind on Harry before he could say, “I’m sorry”.

The talk they had was decidedly less scary than Harry had anticipated—he felt silly, and maybe a bit childish—after all, Ginny was his friend and in all his panic Harry had forgotten that his avoidance had hurt her, too. All the complicated feelings finally burst free, all the things Harry tried to put into words were suddenly out in the open and he couldn’t help but marvel at the lightness of his chest when all was said and done. Ginny admitted she wasn’t sure they should continue pursuing romance together, explained she had some time to think and think she did, finally free from the fear of impending danger that accompanied all of them during the War. It was funny how the oldest excuse in the book turned out to be a half-truth when Ginny dropped the bomb: _it’s not you, it’s me._ She told him that deep inside, she had known all along she was interested in dating women but once she had a little time to herself, she had come to terms with the fact that she was _only_ interested in women. Harry just hugged her very tightly and was relieved to find out that the only thing he felt in his heart at the news was love and joy for his friend’s happiness. And somehow, even though his chest still felt tight, in the bracket of her arms he felt safe and he managed to whisper into her hair that he thought he might be bisexual. His limbs still hurt from the Body Bind and his throat was a little scratchy, but the relief Harry felt that day made him realise that the world wasn’t going to end over who he might one day love.

Looking around his living room, Harry chuckles under his breath and takes a sip of his beer. His small group of friends is scattered around him, laughing and talking, draped over sofas and armchairs, all in various states of inebriation. Hermione, Ginny, and Luna are huddled at the table in the corner over some wedding and florist magazines. Hermione’s bushy hair forms a dome over their heads, locking all three inside a fluffy, soundproof bubble of girl solidarity and hard decisions. The closer they get to the wedding day, the more frantic Hermione seems to get and they all take turns in reeling her back in before she bursts. Harry’s stupidly happy for his two best friends—they deserve each other in all the best ways and seeing the cow eyes Ron makes at his fiancee when he thinks nobody is looking makes the hard road they took to get here all the more worth it. The funny thing is, Ron just might be the more nervous of the pair, clearly having inherited his mother’s sensibilities. The soft side he vehemently denies having tends to come out on late-night Floo calls, in pub toilets after having one too many pints, or the one time when he stared at a wedding dress catalogue for too long and his eyes got a bit too red to blame it on his allergies.

Harry summons a few beers from the kitchen and they land in a neat row on the coffee table close to where the male contingent is seated. He tilts his head and, after a few seconds of deliberation, a fresh bottle of wine comes flying from the cellar as well. Harry hopes the House of Black’s reserve vintage is acceptable, the bouquet isn’t _pedestrian_ and the label isn’t too faded so his choice doesn’t seem as random as it actually is.

“Malfoy. Come on. Top or bottom?” Seamus spreads his arms, an unopened bottle of ale in one hand, indicating the utmost importance of his question.

Draco glares at him with a raised brow, lazily swirling his wine glass in deft fingers. “Finnigan, Finnigan, Finnigan,” he clicks his tongue theatrically and slowly shakes his head. “I refuse to conform to your skewed image of gay men’s sexual roles perpetuated by societal stereotypes—”

“Oi, stop Hermioning us, you tosser!” Dean cuts him off with a laugh, darting a quick look to the corner to make sure the girls are still engrossed in floral compositions.

“Bloody hell, how does he still talk like that, he must have had, what, four glasses of wine?” Ron shakes his head and lets out a low burp. “Sorry.”

Draco looks at him with pity. “I could have ten and I still wouldn’t be half the animal you are.” Ron laughs and flips him two fingers.

“He always talks like that when he’s drunk,” Harry responds automatically and shifts on the couch, poking his socked feet at Draco’s thigh. Draco lifts his leg without a word so Harry can tuck them under him, giving the prat a little kick while he’s at it.

Draco scoffs indignantly. “Malfoys do _not_ get drunk.” He pulls out his wand and opens the new wine bottle. Watching Harry with a playful smirk, he pours a little into his empty glass and gives it a careful sniff. He raises a brow and hums. “Not bad, Potter.”

Harry rolls his eyes with fondness, shaking his head. His face feels warm from all the drinking.

  


* * *

  


If a few years ago, he was told that Draco Malfoy would become a permanent addition to their friend circle, Harry would probably shake it off with a polite laugh. But five years after going into Auror training, a few things happened in quick succession. After old Rodney Doves went into a well-deserved retirement, Harry was named the vice-head of the DMLE. He kept telling everyone it was a facade promotion and seeing how the only thing that changed was the plaque on his office door, Harry felt his exasperation was pretty much justified. He stood by it with unwavering certainty until one day, Robards summoned him into his office—one nicer than any of the Auror offices Harry had seen so far, with chunky armchairs and a large, polished desk, which only further confirmed Harry was just as bland an employee as all his colleagues. And that was fine, it had always been the way Harry preferred it. His self-reassurance lasted a whole four minutes during which Robards assigned him the task of finding and hiring someone for the Potions Master position to run their newly opened forensics department. The sheer confusion Harry felt must have shown on his face quite clearly when Robards, wearing the expression of someone who doesn’t like to hear any excuses, asked if there was a problem. Harry doesn’t remember his exact phrasing but he must have said _something,_ or otherwise indicated his Potions knowledge might be just limited enough to render him underqualified for the task. Robards, however, was having none of it—the man dismissed him, barking something about _getting a bloody N.E.W.T. in Potions for a reason_ , and promptly left Harry outside the door with a creeping feeling of impending doom.

Harry decided to make it up as he went and sent the job offer to the _Prophet_. A week later, he had three interviews to conduct and no idea how to go about the whole business. Being a true Gryffindor at heart, Harry was nothing if not good at diving headfirst into things—he invited the candidates in, asked seemingly clever questions and watched how they interacted with the potions lab. The first one, a girl roughly his age, almost fell face-down over the threshold as soon as she saw him—and that was fair, Harry thought, wondering if he was being too lenient, or maybe too firm?—and it only got worse. After the poor woman broke the fourth beaker in ten minutes while trying to choke out the answers to his questions, Harry didn’t have the heart to keep her there any longer. An almost funny image of Neville in their Potions classes at Hogwarts flashed before his eyes as the girl stuttered her _thank yous_ and _I’m sorrys_ and backed out of the lab, catching her belt loop on the door handle, a grand finale to that disaster of an interview.

The second candidate, Harry refuses to talk about or even remember—to this day, he prays to never pass the man in the streets. Suffice to say, he clearly confused a job interview with a date and his unabashed, brazen propositioning made Harry’s skin crawl, fingers ghosting over his thigh holster, ready to whip out his wand if needed.

After a lunch break, Harry was supposed to talk to the last candidate and by that time he had lost hope of finding anyone suitable—honestly, was it too much to ask, to find someone who wouldn’t trash the lab and get sued for harassment in their first week? The Universe made his wish come true in the most twisted, shocking way when Harry came back to find Draco Malfoy waiting outside the office.

Harry sometimes still thinks about that day. Still thinks about Draco’s detached grace and the sliver of nervousness peeking from behind the polite mask glued to his face. Still thinks about how he was _Malfoy_ back then, how inadequate Harry felt as he watched his former nemesis saunter around the lab, examining everything with sharp focus, his long, deft fingers drifting over the fragile glass contraptions, brushing the silver faucets and looking at Harry like he wanted to examine him, too. Thinks about how Draco answered all his questions without a hitch, how he moved with a lazy elegance he could only inherit from the Black bloodline, how polite and put-together he was, to the point Harry almost wanted to provoke him somehow, to see his mouth curve in that sneer Harry knew and remembered so well he could probably draw it from memory. As they talked, the dynamic somehow shifted and it seemed as if Draco was the one in charge, telling Harry about his experience and the Potion’s Master degree he got in France after the War, about all the technicalities and methods he wished to apply in the department, about some things Harry would never dream of ever grasping and by the time he had run out of questions, he already knew Malfoy should absolutely get hired. And Harry was going to make sure he did.

Harry’s friends were… sceptical about his choice, to say the least. But it soon turned out Malfoy put his money where his mouth was—he turned out to be excellent at his job and with each case he helped them solve, Harry grew more and more curious about the man he had become. Somewhere along the way, Harry started visiting the forensics lab to personally ask for help and Draco, however surprised he looked, always did his best to provide. Slowly but surely, Harry found himself visiting the lab on breaks, just to watch Draco work, or sometimes ask Potions-related questions that always got an answer, no matter how silly they must have been, no matter how busy Draco was. Harry doesn’t remember the first time he dragged Draco out of the stuffy, fume-filled room to get lunch together but suddenly they were actual colleagues and then he called Draco his friend in a conversation or two, earning himself a knowing look from Hermione, and a rather puzzled one from Ron.

It caught Harry by surprise, the wondrous realisation that he had, in fact, become close friends with Draco. It was a fragile thing, carefully woven with stories of their lives after the War, reinforced with long-overdue apologies, and burnished with all the small things they learned about each other. It was surprisingly easy to open himself up to Draco Malfoy, of all people, and it even though it should have been shocking—how eerily similar they actually were, how well they fit together in the strangest scenarios, how the most peculiar things left his mouth when there were just the two of them, sharing pints and talking the night away—somehow it just worked. Harry’s other friends took a little longer to adapt, but then, there was the time Draco brewed a Migraine Potion for Hermione to help her get through a particularly rough case, or the time he brought a Muscle Relaxant for Ginny after hearing about her post-practice cramps. The first get-togethers which Harry insisted Draco came to were a little stilted, maybe even uncomfortable, but time worked in their favour; as did Draco’s signature Hangover Potion, which became a quick and sure way to make everyone see he meant no harm. After that, even Ron allowed himself to let out an occasional grumble that maybe Malfoy isn’t as much of an evil prat as he used to be anymore.

Draco has become an integral part of their little family—broken and whole at the same time. A family of young adults who had to grow up when they were still children; who had to make adult decisions before they fully understood the weight of their choices. And it wasn’t just a nice sentiment or a pretty metaphorical bow placed on the top of their tragic stories—together they had created a new life of rebuilding, reconnecting, and starting over, and Harry can only smile at the thought they finally have the time to be young.

  


* * *

  


“What about you, Harry?” Dean asks, flashing him an impish smile. “When you do it with blokes, that is.”

“What about me?” Harry snaps out of his reverie and looks around the circle. Ron is staring down the neck of his bottle but his ears are red, and even Draco looks decidedly less bored as he quietly sips his wine. “What?”

Seamus looks like he’s trying not to laugh. “Harry, focus, mate,” he snaps his fingers in the air. “Top or bottom?”

“Er,” Harry starts, as a wave of panic hits him, making his cheeks burn. In the corner of his eye, he can see Ron perk up a little. Draco doesn’t move at all. “I… I never—” Honestly, should it matter? Harry takes a gulp of his beer. “It’s, um, hard to say—”

“Versatile, then?” Draco asks, casual but a little croaky.

“What?” Harry and Ron ask unison. This is bad. Ron should be allowed not to know these things. Harry, on the other hand…

“Wait,” Seamus tilts his head. “Harry, are you a virgin?”

Ron chokes on his beer, forcing out his words between coughs. “Harry, wait, _never!?_ How about—with a girl?” His jaw drops at Harry’s shrug. “Not even kissing?” Ron adds in a conspiratorial tone.

Harry scoffs at that. “Oh for the—of course, I’ve _kissed_ someone before!” He hisses, a little impatient. Ron narrows his eyes at him and Harry groans. “Mate, we were in a bloody dorm together, I told you those things!” He gestures wildly to Ginny who’s currently in the middle of a heated debate with the girls on the other side of the room. “I dated your sister!”

“And you two never—” Ron trails off and turns his head to stare into the distance.

“Got it on?” Seamus finishes and pinches his lips together, looking at Harry with wide eyes.

“Are you seriously asking me if I had sex with your sister? What’s wrong with you?” Harry can feel his face must have taken an impressive shade of crimson by now and he’s honestly annoyed—it’s Ron who should feel bad about that question! None of the others, however, share that sentiment, all four of them looking at him as if he were an interesting new species they’re seeing for the first time. A true missing link to society’s endless layers of people who apparently shag each other all the time. Harry sighs. It’s not like it was a real secret to begin with.

The true secret, the one thing only Harry (and a lovely artist all the way in Spain) knows about, is his tattoos. He adjusts himself on the sofa, feeling the softest hum of magic along his core—the Concealing Charms he’s been wearing for the last few months feel more like a safety blanket than like a burden. At first, he needed a bit more focus to keep them up all day but it’s second nature now and Harry is glad to take advantage of his allegedly exceptional magical prowess.

It’s not that he’s ashamed. It’s not that he doesn’t trust his friends. It’s just… Personal. After his last session, it took him a few days to bring himself to take a full look in the mirror, to be ready—for what, Harry wasn’t sure. It was a chapter closing, a new one opening, it was purification, conservation; it was tying the memories of his past to the ideals he wanted to carry into his future.

There are lilies. Long, graceful petals blooming from the middle of his sternum, cradled in the valley between his pectorals. One of the larger petals frames his Avada Kedavra scar—Harry’s sure there’s a metaphor somewhere in there—the tattoo wasn’t supposed to cover it, just coexist alongside it, the symbol of his mother’s love forever entangled with the mark of darkness on his body. There’s a pair of large stag antlers looming protectively over the flowers, branching out and up, their tips dipping into the hollows of his collarbones. On his left shoulder, the Canis Majoris constellation, sketched out over a figure of a large, black dog, Sirius’ star gleaming proudly at its collar. And on the right, the head of a wolf, its mouth open in a silent howl.

It should be grim, Harry knows, and probably very telling, to have mementoes of dead people carved into his skin. But Harry prefers to think of them as amulets, an intimate photo album he can carry with him wherever he goes, a reminder of the ones who died so that he could live on. His parents around his heart, and at his shoulders, the two men he could have once called just that.

He’s going to show his friends, one day. Just not yet. Harry wants to keep them to himself just a little longer.

Dean watches him with the intent and wobbly focus of a very determined drunk. He squints at Harry for an uncomfortable amount of time before he asks: “Not even a handjob? Blowjobs?”

Harry groans, hiding his face in his hands.

“Receiving _and_ giving counts,” Dean adds encouragingly, but not before glancing at Seamus to confirm the impromptu concession. “Not even a little—”

“Please stop listing sexual activities,” Harry moans, his voice muffled.

“Boys, leave him alone,” Hermione chides, pausing her conversation with Ginny and Luna.

As soon as she turns back, though, Ron, Dean and Seamus resume their staring while Draco looks politely bored, as if someone made him watch a wildlife documentary. Finally, Ron sags in his chair and takes a large swig of his beer.

“But,” he sighs dramatically, a tragic hero burdened with the many mysteries of an uncaring universe. “But you’re bi, yeah? You have like”—he pauses and frowns, clearly conducting some complicated thought processes—”twice the pool any of us does! You could shag anyone!”

“Ronald, it doesn’t work like that!”

Harry’s non-existent sex life is apparently a much more enticing topic than the ongoing debate about the superiority of peach roses over peonies because the girls bring their respective drinks and join them in the centre of the room. Ginny and Luna flop down on the pile of large pillows by the table, and Hermione props herself on the elbow-rest of Ron’s armchair. She summons Draco’s wine bottle and pours herself a glass, smiling at the dramatic arch of his brow all too quickly replaced by a fond eyeroll to carry any real malice.

Ron cranes his neck to look up at his fiancee, who takes in his flushed face and unfocused eyes and lets out a little laugh. “And how many did you have?”

“Enough to pester us with his heterosexual _nonsense_ ,” Draco sighs, earning a snigger from Dean and Seamus, “and molest Potter about his private life, or lack thereof, through socially inappropriate questions.”

Harry feels a wave of heartfelt gratitude towards Draco. It’s one of the little things Harry discovered about him and never told another soul. It started with small, nearly imperceptible gestures and by the time Harry had a name for them, Draco fell into a habit of bringing him coffee when he spent too long cooped up in his office over case paperwork. Sometimes, there would also be a carton box with a piece of treacle tart inside, despite Draco always emphasising how much he hates the stuff. He would come uninvited through the Floo and just _be_ there, in Harry’s house, orbiting Harry like a safety net, smelling like citrus and telling boring, mundane stories in a hushed tone. It was a welcome presence, especially after Harry didn’t manage to save someone in the line of work, or when things have gone otherwise awry in the field. If Draco sometimes fell asleep on his couch, drooling on Harry’s shoulder halfway through a muggle film, Harry would usually doze off himself and wake up covered with a chunky blanket, with only Draco’s lingering smell to indicate he was ever there in the first place.

Draco Malfoy is secretly soft—that’s all it is and Harry wants to laugh into the oblivion Draco would send him into with a few lazy swings of his wand if Harry ever mentioned it. Draco craves physical touch probably as much as Harry loves giving it; but it was a scary line to cross at first, to allow those touches just between the two of them, maybe part of it was the fact they never acknowledged it out loud. Harry remembers the questioning looks Draco aimed his way at first, as if asking permission, asking a thousand things while not really needing an answer. They still never talk about it, how Draco sometimes adjusts Harry’s collar, or how Harry unceremoniously plants his feet in Draco’s lap when he joins him on the sofa. Their friends never comment on it either, perhaps attributing it to their peculiar relationship as a whole.

Harry nudges Draco with his toes tucked between the couch and Draco’s thigh, a quiet _thanks_ , an acknowledgement just for them. Draco doesn’t look up but there’s a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips before he hides it in his wine glass.

“And how’s _your_ night?” Harry turns to Hermione with a wide, fake smile and his voice is a little too high to be considered casual. Harry blames it on Ron, Dean, Seamus, and their invasive questions. And the beers, definitely those three beers.

Hermione yelps when Ron grabs her by the waist and tugs her down into his lap. She laughs as he holds her in a vice-like grip and buries his face in her jumper. “We’re almost done with all the—Ron!” She tries to wiggle out, helpless against her husband-to-be and his alcohol-induced burst of emotion. “With all the flowers,” Hermione says flatly, folding her lips into a thin line as if half of the world’s vegetation existed just to spite her. “I’m starting to hate all of them, honestly,” she adds with a sigh.

“Ooh, don’t let Neville hear you say that!” Ginny laughs from where she’s seated behind Luna, pausing halfway through the impressive braid she started, as her girlfriend nods with all seriousness, her wide blue eyes trained on Hermione.

“They would all be so heartbroken,” Luna says with a grave nod.

Seamus opens his mouth and closes it. He opens it again. “I’m going to regret this but: they?”

“Neville and his flowers!” Luna says. “They positively flourish if you tell them how beautiful they are, it’s so lovely,” her lips turned up into a thoughtful moue. “So does Neville, come to think of it.”

Seamus stares at her unblinkingly, an impressive feat with how droopy his eyelids were getting, until he just takes a gulp of beer, discouraged by a sharp, warning glance from Draco, of all people. Harry feels something warm expand in his chest because Draco is turning into a mother Dragon and that’s something Harry is absolutely going to tease him about later.

“I’ll make sure we’ll tell them, then,” Ginny says and kisses the tip of her ear.

“I’ll come with you,” Harry adds with a smile.

Dean points his bottle at Harry. “Look at him, so eager to change the topic.”

“Speaking of,” Hermione interrupts, and Harry doesn’t know yet if Hermione talking about it is an improvement. “There are much more pressing matters in regard to Harry’s private life.”

“Hermione, I am disappointed in you,” Harry looks at her with mock scandal, unable to lace any malice into his tone. He doesn’t really mind talking about it. The ‘thinking about it before sleep’ part is the hard one.

“Granger, I always wondered how you’d have conducted yourself in Slytherin,” Draco says, squinting at her. Hermione wiggles her eyebrows at him and turns back to the group.

“Right. As we all know, the wedding is in six months—”

“That’s plenty of time!” Ron says from behind her, not dozing off after all, to everyone’s surprise.

Hermione’s eyes go wide and she elbows her fiancé in the solar plexus, hard enough to get out a muffled grunt. “That is _barely any time at all,_ Ron!”

They all snigger at the raised hands coming from behind Hermione in a defensive gesture. She shakes her head and continues. “As I was saying. The wedding’s right behind the corner and everyone has a plus one…” She zeroes in on Harry with mirth in her eyes.

“And I don’t wonder anymore—now, I know. Such a waste, to put you in Gryffindor,” Draco clicks his tongue.

“I’ll take that as a strangely-spun compliment,” she says and rolls her eyes, trying not to grin. “Although I am glad to have been sorted Gryffindor in the end.”

Draco chuckles. “Well, at least you kept those two alive,” he jerks his head at Harry, then at Ron. “Gods know England needs all the Saviours and gingers it can get.”

“Oi!”

Harry gives him a little shove and Draco yelps when his wine almost lands on his crisp, white shirt. He gives Harry a _look_ , one that’s meant to be intimidating, but even his faded Dark Mark looks like a funny skull peeking from under the rolled-up sleeve as it contrasts with his flushed cheeks and tousled hair.

“Harry!”

“What?” Harry asks, tearing his gaze from Draco’s over-the-top clothes—honestly, who wears a waistcoat to a casual get-together?

“Stop eye-fucking and listen!” Ginny laughs as Harry stares at her in horror.

“I’m not—”

“Hey!” Hermione shouts. “Harry, love, you need a plus one for the wedding.”

He can feel the tips of his ears burning at Ginny’s comment. They weren’t— They don’t. They don’t do that. Draco is staring at his glass with an unreadable expression and Harry thinks he’s maybe uncomfortable, and rightly so, because they _don’t do that_. He wiggles his toes again and sees the sharp angles of Draco’s shoulders settle. They don’t. They’re close friends.

“Why do _I_ need a plus one but Draco doesn’t?” Harry grumbles and Draco barks out a laugh.

“I… don’t like sharing the attention, you see,” he says with a smirk.

“You’re Ron’s best man so you need someone with you for the official part,” Hermione says, raising a hand as soon as Harry opens his mouth. “I’ll explain everything later. So. Since you’re not dating anyone, we could set you up with someone.”

“What?” Harry pauses. “Why— How did you come to that conclusion?” He feels his face is heating up again and it’s not fair, to end up an apple-cheeked maiden, thrown into _The_ _Bachelorette: Hogwarts Edition_ , it’s barmy, Harry’s perfectly capable of finding someone to go with.

He makes a mental list of all the women and men he could ask. It’s not an impressive list. It’s more of a note.

God, is he a hermit?

He can’t be. He has _friends_. Just, all his friends are already in relationships.

Harry wonders if it’s something about him. Dating was never high on the list of his priorities, mainly due to a noseless madman dearly hoping to murder him for seventeen years of his life. And then, came Auror training. And then, he got his dream job. And then… Harry wonders.

“It’s not _just_ for the wedding, mind you,” Hermione says. “We’re your friends and we want you to be happy, and—”

“And we want you to get laid, mate,” Seamus adds.

“And you’ve been sort of writing everyone off after the first date for, like, years,” Ginny says.

“ _And_ ,” Hermione gives them a severe look, “we thought if you met someone earlier, you could consider inviting them to the wedding.”

“Oh, I know someone who’d be a lovely companion,” Luna says with a bright smile.

“What?” Hermione says weakly. “I mean— Actually, Ron and I—”

“I think Neville mentioned a new coworker he has, too,” Dean pipes in, grinning. “What is it, Hermione? Are you and Ron the only ones who can throw their hats in the ring?”

“Wait—” Harry starts.

“No!” Hermione’s tone is far too defensive to assume she meant _all_ of them can participate. “Just—”

“Oh, I know, let’s make it a bet!” Ginny says, looking around. “Any of us can propose a candidate to go out with Harry. If he ends up going to the wedding with one of them, the person who introduced them takes it all!” Her eyes are already gleaming the same way they do before a Quidditch match. The fiercest of the Weasley clan is already calculating the odds, her fingers carding through Luna’s hair with renewed vigour. She pauses. “Unless, uh. Harry, are you okay with that?”

Harry… just is, for the moment. While he can muster up a considerable amount of gratitude for his friends wanting to see him happy, some insistent gut feeling tells him that a bet might end in disaster. There’s a vision somewhere there, too, Harry in a red sequin dress, giving out roses and flashing a million-watt smile at men named _Blaine_ or _Chad_. Bloody _Bachelorette_ , he really needs to convert Draco to something less flashy, maybe some wildlife programme or just the weather.

On the other hand, perhaps he did need a fresh look, maybe his technique (or lack thereof) was the problem. Or maybe Harry himself was the problem, maybe there was something…

“I don’t… write people off,” he mumbles, clinging onto the first thing he can think of.

“Jean from Muggle Affairs, funny Thomas, Wizengamot James,” Ron starts listing, craning his neck to look straight at Harry while he does.

“Oh, funny Thomas was fun,” Ginny sighs.

“He was… short.” Harry’s face must have taken the colour of the contents of Draco’s glass by now. There’s a pause. “Oh my God, fine!” He throws his arms up in defeat. “Just because of the wedding!”

“How about we double the prize if Harry gets laid on the first date?” Dean asks.

“You too?” Harry asks, a little annoyed.

His friend shrugs. “I don’t think Seamus and I know anyone suitable since… y’know, most of the clients at the Wheezes shop are kids,” he grimaces. “I just wish you gave your flower to someone worthy, mate.”

Next to him, Draco chokes on his drink, and Ron barks out a loud laugh. Harry brings his hands up to massage his temples. “If you ever call it _giving my flower_ again, I’m going to throw up.”

“What would you call it?” Ginny asks.

“I’d rather we didn’t call it anything.” Harry squeezes his eyes shut.

“I quite like ‘lovemaking’,” Luna says.

Ginny hums. “I just call it shagging.”

Ron raises a finger. “A _roll in the hay,_ ” he says sagely, earning a snort from Seamus.

“Rumpy-pumpy?” Dean supplies. Harry makes a disgusted sound.

“This is beneath me,” Draco announces, pouring himself more wine.

“Why do we always end up talking about sex, anyway?” Ginny grimaces.

“Would you like the correct answer or the _fun_ answer?” Hermione asks, drawing air quotes around the ‘fun’ bit, her wine sloshing dangerously in her glass.

“The fun one!” Ron bellows, raising his bottle.

“The correct one, obviously,” Draco pipes in at the same time.

Harry prefers no answer at all but knows he’s likely to get both in the end.

“Well, in short, my theory is that after dealing with all that happened when we were teenagers—and with the aftermath, both mental and situational—we finally get to live out our youth, so to speak,” Hermione says. “We get together to drink, we act silly, and make stupid jokes because we… finally have the time to do so.”

The group stays quiet for a bit, weighing her words. Harry supposes there’s some truth to them—they should have been partying and shagging in their early twenties, not going to funerals and memorials, rebuilding their school, or mending fences with their supposed enemies. He darts a look at Draco’s pointy profile. At least something good came out of it.

“What was the fun answer, Hermione?”

Hermione covers her face with a hand to stifle a soft giggle. “Well,” she smiles mischievously, “it’s just because all of us do it on the regular,” she shrugs. “Except for Harry,” she adds quickly. The group erupts in laughter and Harry flips them two fingers.

  


* * *

  


The night goes on for a little bit longer until Harry’s friends start saying their goodbyes and, one by one, step into the Floo. After Hermione kisses his cheek and drags her confused, sleepy fiance home, Harry smiles and takes a look around. He’s in the middle of spelling all the cushions to their respective places when Draco walks back into the living room.

Occasionally, Draco stays behind after everyone’s gone home; sometimes he idly naps on the couch as Harry finishes his paperwork and Harry can never tell if he’s actually asleep or not. Sometimes, Draco wanders around the old Black house, exploring its corridors and dusty bookshelves. On those days, Harry usually finds him engrossed in some ancient tome or an old journal he happened to find, his eyes always sparkling as he looks up at Harry to share his discovery. How Draco is the only one to sometimes come across some true gems, is a personal offence to Hermione and a complete mystery to everyone else. Draco never tells though, either because he doesn’t know himself, or because he enjoys making up outlandish stories about those little treasure hunts, varying between being linked to the house by blood and meeting the ghost of his great, great, great, and-so-forth grandfather.

Each time Draco finds something special, his enthusiasm is so contagious Harry drops everything to join him on the couch and listen as Draco talks about the gravity or peculiarity of his find of the day. Harry is always happy to listen, to watch Draco gesture animatedly as he tells him old Black family histories his mother used to tell him. Sometimes, Harry watches Draco’s hands, how carefully they hold the books as if they were precious heirlooms (they actually were, more often than not, if only because of their age). Draco has very long, slender fingers and Harry sometimes thinks his hands were made to handle delicate objects—thin glass vials, antique leather books, the finest quills, and champagne glasses. One time, Draco caught Harry staring down and there was a little crease between his eyebrows as he quieted down and stopped gesturing, and Harry immediately felt bad because he already knew that meant Draco was unsure if he was boring Harry or not. If he was ‘too much’, as he once said so himself. Harry couldn’t very well tell Draco he was staring at his hands but since then, he always made sure Draco knew he listened; sometimes, he would let Draco plop his feet in his lap, in a casual, reassuring gesture, and play with the hems of his tailored trousers while Draco’s smooth, low voice engulfed them both in a calm bubble. And sometimes, Harry would sit on the floor, between the couch and the coffee table where their book of the day was placed, and maybe lean on Draco’s legs, with his head against Draco’s knee as they talked.

On nights like this and many others before it, Harry truly sees how brilliant Draco is, how he comes alive when they talk and, most importantly, how effortless and pleasant talking to Draco is. Harry has never examined how different his relationship with Draco is from the ones with his other friends, never questioned the universe’s irony in pulling them so close together after years of being on the opposite sides of everything that mattered. He’s grateful they were given a second chance.

He flops down on the couch next to Draco who’s absently flipping through a small, leather-bound book. Kreacher pops in for a second and brings them two cups of tea (two sugars for Harry, just milk for Draco) and starts a small fire that crackles softly, accompanied by the rustle of old pages and the muffled rumble of the city outside. Harry cranes his neck to take a peek at the book’s spine but finds only an intricate pattern of silver vines curling down the cover. Draco doesn’t look at him yet so Harry lets him finish the paragraph he seems so engrossed in and takes a sip of his tea.

He thinks about the time Draco found some old tomes that turned out to be dark spellbooks; they probably belonged to Sirius’ ancestors and the horrifying curses they found inside were dangerous enough for them to decide to return the books to the Ministry. Harry took them in on the next day and got the dressing-down of the century from Robards for just throwing the tomes in his satchel, and then a second one from Draco for the exact same thing (they already touched them at home, it’s not like they were cursed). There was also a time Draco found a book on Black ancestry, hidden in a secret compartment in one the many bookshelves of Twelve Grimmauld Place. They studied it until wee hours of the morning, both eager to learn—Draco being his mother’s son and Harry being Sirius’ godson and the master of his house. The one tome they didn’t discuss too much—or look each other in the eye for two hours after spelling it open—was a small book in a golden cover, depicting a plethora of sexual positions and practices that should make any respected pure-blood clutch their pearls in justified indignation. With the tips of his ears burning red, Draco croakily explained that such guides were a common occurrence back in the day, especially in the high society, and they left it at that.

And if Harry took a closer look or two at those pictures on the odd night, that’s nobody’s business but his own.

“You look like someone pissed in your cereal,” Draco states more than asks and Harry jumps, too lost in thought to notice Draco staring.

“I—” Harry sighs and gives him a weak smile. “What’s that book? Found anything interesting today?”

Draco’s gaze lingers for a few more seconds before he picks up the book. Harry’s relieved he can just take a few minutes to unwind and Draco never pushes or picks his brain. A change of topic is sort of an unspoken plea of _not yet_ rather than a definite _don’t,_ and Harry’s glad he doesn’t have to explain.

“It’s some sort of a romance novel,” Draco says. “Nothing award-worthy, probably something old auntie Walburga kept under her pillow for a cheap thrill.”

Harry grimaces, coaxing a laugh out of Draco. “What happens in it?”

“Well. There’s a beautiful, young maid who’s in love with her master,” Draco says in a bored tone, “ _obviously_.” He rolls his eyes. “Salazar, when Granger’s right, she’s right, those power dynamics are properly messed up.”

Harry props himself on Draco’s shoulder and looks down at the book in his hands. “So, the maid?”

“Ah, yes. I only skimmed it but from what I gathered, her master is a werewolf and loves her dearly, but refuses to put her in danger,” Draco recites in a dramatic tone and Harry chuckles. “She pines her days away, probably while tending to some stereotypical maid responsibilities, like cooking stew or polishing the silver. She begs and whines until a _deus ex machina_ fairy godmother comes to her in a dream and teaches her a recipe for a potion that will cure her beloved,” Draco rolls his eyes at Harry’s stifled laugh. “It’s not a good book, Potter, I told you.”

“You still read it,” Harry points out.

“I _skimmed_ it,” Draco corrects. “I might be a fast reader but I did only find it an hour ago,” he says, “and I, well, might have made up some parts.”

“I knew it!”

“They’re all the same!” Draco scoffs. “Honestly, I’m starting to understand why so many victorian women killed their husbands or drowned their children in bathtubs. They must have been just bored into madness.”

“At least the cover looks nice,” Harry says, tracing a finger over the vine pattern, its curly stems forming a frame on the front cover.

“Haven’t you heard about the consequences of judging books by their covers?” Draco asks in a small voice, his brow raised in question.

“I try not to do that,” he says, looking at Draco who suddenly seems tense. “Not when it matters.”

Draco’s hand creeps to his left forearm, absently brushing his faded Mark. His cheeks look a little pink but it might as well be due to the fire currently roaring merrily in the hearth. “I suppose that’s true,” he says quietly.

“Are there really potions like that?” Harry asks abruptly, his thoughts still somewhat a little scattered after everything that happened that evening.

“Ones that cure lycanthropy?” Draco lets out a long exhale. “No, unfortunately not. We’re not even close to finding a proper cure,” he says gravely.

“And,” Harry gulps, already regretting what’s about to come out of his mouth, “is there a potion that…” He trails off, deciding against it.

“There are many potions, Potter.”

Harry’s curiosity wins. “For… you know.” He hangs his head, too embarrassed to look at Draco right now.

Draco nudges him a little with his shoulder. “There are… no potions for that.”

“How— How about Felix Felicis?” Harry asks, surprised he even thought of that.

Draco stiffens. “Promise me you won’t try it.”

“Why not?”

“Potter,” he starts and exhales slowly. “Let me say this: Felix Felicis is pure, wild, unpredictable magic.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well. We were researching it for some case from the Unspeakables,” Draco starts, and then pauses. “I want to tell you more but apparently their weird non-disclosure agreements still work.” He shrugs and continues. “Anway, we were taken off the project when some of the... idiotic, overzealous, overambitious, _arse-licking tossers_ I had for apprentices _borrowed_ a few vials, despite being explicitly told not to take anything outside the laboratory,” he says, lips folded into a thin line, clearly still bitter about the events. “Anyway, I didn’t manage to research it as much as I would have liked to, but I learned enough not to trifle with it.”

Harry watches Draco intently, thinking about his one encounter with the potion. It didn’t seem as bad as Draco made it out to be. “All right. So what did you manage to learn?”

Draco hums. “Felix is…” He shakes his head quickly. “No, that’s idiotic.”

“No, tell me,” He pleads (it’s definitely _not_ a whine) and jerks his head where it’s resting on Draco’s shoulder. It beats Harry how it got there but he’s warm and comfortable so he doesn’t overthink it.

“Sometimes it seemed… almost sentient.” Draco huffs and shakes his head again. Harry gets it—years of friendship with Hermione have taught him that people like her and Draco believe some things have just no right to exist, even in the world of magic, and being confronted with things like sentient potions usually causes frustration rather than sparking any academic curiosity.

“Right. And how did you discover that?”

“Our results were inconclusive and I don’t know if the team the research was handed over to made any progress,” Draco says, resigned.

“Are you saying it doesn’t work like most magic… should? You know, intent and stuff,” Harry prods.

Draco flashes him a wry smile. “Intent and intentions are two very different things. We… don’t know what the potion responds to. Your brain, your magical core, both in some capacity?”

“What happened when the apprentices took it? Because I’m assuming they did take it?”

“Your assumption would be correct.”

“But why?”

“They _claimed_ they took Felix to boost the research,” Draco says testily, an indication he didn’t believe it then and doesn’t believe it now.

“And what did they find?” Harry’s impatient and excited at the same time—knowing Draco’s penchant for dramatics, the story will be a good one.

“Get this: they found an illegal stash of Felix itself. It’s like the potion practically laughed in their faces.”

“It’s like the potion… lead them there?”

Draco hums in confirmation.

“Wow. It’s, like, ‘good luck finding out’,” Harry whispers.

“Precisely. So until we know what the potion…”—Draco pauses and scoffs—“ _thinks_ , for lack of a better word, the results are entirely left to… well, chance. Ironic, isn’t it?”

“And that’s why you’re saying it’s dangerous.”

“I’m saying it’s irresponsible to think it will go exactly how we expect it to every time.”

“But it could still make something… happen,” Harry feels his blush is back. It was a stupid idea to begin with but he’s still curious.

“Potter. You’re overanalysing. What I’m trying to say is… there is no magic that will give you memories.” Draco turns a bit and gives him a somber look. “Real ones, I mean. You can’t _make_ yourself not-a-virgin-anymore with magic,” he says and Harry considers jumping into the fireplace.

Draco must notice his queasiness and continues. “Sure, magic can erase or replace emotions, it can even provide new ones, but that’s all they’ll ever be—magically supplied sensations. Do you understand? It might be _technically_ real but… is it though? Are memories erased by Obliviation any less real? Does Amortentia make people truly fall in love?”

“I… see.”

“There are spells, sure, but those used to be cast on women back in the day.” He grimaces. “You know, when arranged marriages were all the rage, and the brides-to-be weren’t exactly as pure as their rich old betrothed would have expected. But, mind you, it was merely a physical procedure, now an outdated one, and thank Merlin for that.” Draco rests his head on Harry’s and the comfort of being able to talk to Draco about it makes something in his chest ache.

“There is no magic that will fully convey the meaning or feeling of… being with someone, truly. Why do you think people conceived on Amortentia can’t feel love?” Draco murmurs.

“Right,” Harry says, his voice barely over a whisper.

“You saw Obliviation victims that still _knew_ exactly who they wanted to kiss in a room full of people and it turned out to be their spouse or secret lover, or… you know. You’ve been to the Department of Mysteries. You saw the,” he gestures vaguely, “pink room. What do you think they study there?”

“Love,” Harry croaks.

Draco clicks his tongue. “Yes and no. Love is just one of the whole plethora of emotions a human can experience. Emotions are… not an easy thing to make a science out of,” he adds, a little rueful.

“So why is it possible to manipulate them to an extent?”

Draco lifts his hands and draws invisible lines in the air, his slim fingers casting shadows in the dim room. “Every action creates a reaction. Energy flows, matter circulates, and magic… is. Studies show that even when we Summon something, seemingly from the Aether, it has to come from somewhere. If it didn’t, every Conjuration Spell could tear the very fabric of what we know as _our_ plane of existence,” he says and drops his hands into his own lap. “I suppose, and this is just me theorising right now, that it could be the same with emotions, however hard they are to grasp.”

“I suppose that makes sense.”

“But I’m getting off track, apologies. What I’m trying to tell you—while you can _make_ someone touch you, or even love you, with the use of magic, it won’t carry the same feeling. Spells have counterspells, potions wear off, and memories cannot be ripped from the… tapestry of time or whatever you want to call it.”

Harry snorts softly and picks at a loose thread on his jumper sleeve. “I can’t believe Draco Malfoy is teaching me about feelings.”

Draco opens his mouth, closes it again. There it is, that telling little crease between his brows, and Harry rushes to make it disappear.

“No, no, that’s… amazing,” he says and something flips in his stomach. “I mean, I. I like listening to you. And just… talking. To you,” he finishes awkwardly.

Draco’s cheeks flush an impressive shade of Gryffindor crimson and Harry suddenly has an urge to ruffle his hair. Instead, he smiles.

“Right. Let’s say you spell some food directly into your stomach. It will get the job done, as in provide your body with the necessary nutrients, but will you be able to say you had _a meal_?”

Harry nods sadly. He understands what Draco is trying to say.

“So you see it now?” He asks softly. “There is no magic that can truly… make your heart skip a beat at the mere thought of holding someone’s hand. There is no magic that will make you shudder at the memory of someone’s… lips on your body,” Draco voice goes a little raspy and he suddenly falls silent.

Harry’s heart does skip a beat, actually, but the reason for that is foggy at best. The room feels hot and stuffy because of the fire and Harry runs a shaky hand through his hair. He thinks about Draco’s words and about how those things should feel like but also about Draco himself, about how well Draco understands him, and how far they’ve come to just be this: two close friends on the sofa, having tea, talking the night away by the fire and just enjoying each other’s company. 

Draco coughs a little. “Right.”

Suddenly, Harry feels a little bad. “Draco.”

“Yeah?”

His voice sounds very small when he speaks. “It’s not… that I’m shallow. I just—”

Draco cuts him off. “I know you’re not,” he says firmly. “Honestly, of all people…”

“I just wanted to know what you think. I was worried I’m… cursed or something, or unlov—”

There’s a warm hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. “I’ll stop you right there.” Draco looks at him seriously, his grey eyes a thunderstorm. “There’s _nothing_ wrong with you. Nothing.”

The silence between them stretches but it’s not uncomfortable; Draco stares at him and Harry’s a little dizzy with the emotion rumbling behind Draco’s steel gaze. “Yeah. Yeah, okay,” he whispers.

The hand disappears, a little too fast to be casual. “Give yourself some time,” Draco says softly. “It’s not some ridiculous initiation into the world of people who shag, it’s just a stupid concept. You’ll know when it’s right.”

“Thanks, Draco,” he croaks. “I mean it.”

Draco looks at him for a few more seconds before biting down a smile and the moment is over. “If you tell anyone I said this, I’ll murder you.”

Harry just raises a brow, waiting.

Draco looks like he’s really deliberating whether to say it or not. “True love… is like a fart. If you force it, it’ll be shite.”

That out-of-character statement startles a delighted laugh from Harry and Draco flushes a deep red. It only makes Harry laugh harder, toppling over and grabbing Draco’s knee to balance himself.

Draco rubs at his eyes, pained. “Salazar, you Gryffindors are a terrible influence, do you know that?”

Harry smirks. “And yet, scarlet is a good colour on you.”

“Shut up.”


	2. Chapter 2

Harry paces outside of the quaint little café Luna excitedly sent him directions to, feeling like a madman. He wracks his brain for the reason he agreed to a bloody blind date in the first place. The only information he has is that the man’s name is Archibald (peculiar, but he’s seen worse), and that he’ll be waiting inside. Was Harry that drunk? Did they drug him? Imperius him? That would make him a poor Auror, wouldn’t it? And who would want to date a bad Auror, it’s unsafe and, frankly, a bit embarrassing. As if going on a blind date with Harry Potter in a Glamour wasn’t bad enough. He catches the cafe’s interior in the corner of his eye and sees a flash of a white tablecloth. Is he underdressed? Sure, it’s three in the afternoon and it’s definitely not a fancy place, but still. He wishes he had asked Draco before going. Draco would definitely know. He would also give him that fond, exasperated smile and tell him to _calm down, Potter, it’s not like you’re going on a date with the Dark Lord_.

Maybe Voldemort would be better, Harry thinks derangedly and wants to laugh. At least he knows how _that_ would go.

He stops and takes a few deep breaths. He’s spiralling.

The place looks really nice actually, in a quiet, suburban kind of way. There’s a small patio in front, surrounded by white, wooden boxes with sumptuous lavender bushes that permeate the air with a calming aroma mingling with the smell of coffee and croissants. A few white wrought iron tables are scattered in no particular order, with matching chairs, each decorated with a dainty pillow or a folded blanket thrown over the elbow rest. A lilac awning covers the space and it’s adorned with ropes of fairy lights that must give the place a romantic touch after it gets dark. Harry jumps a little when a young waitress smiles at him as she steps outside, accompanied by the silvery tinkle of a bell hung above the french door. His grimace of anguish must look nothing like the easy smile she sent his way because the girl quickly grabs a watering can that’s left under the windowsill and proceeds to focus all of her attention on watering the plants, studiously avoiding Harry’s gaze.

Merlin’s tits, he must look a mess. Harry sucks in a few long, deep, breaths through his nose, inhaling the lavender and praying for aromatherapy to bloody work for once in his life. It’s fine. Harry makes a mental list to calm himself down. One: he’s wearing a Glamour so nobody will recognize him. Two: it’s Luna who set him up to do this. Luna has good judgement and pure intentions. Strange, but pure. Three: he could really use a croissant. Four: he’s already fifteen minutes late due to his momentary slip of sanity.

He takes one more whiff of the lavender and steps inside.

As far as cafés go, this one looks so normal it’s almost underwhelming. Not that Harry expected a beast to swallow him up as soon as he stepped over the threshold, but his entrance felt a little anticlimactic. There are more tables and chairs, some chunky sofas dolled up with throw pillows, and more than a few potted plants. The only thing that puts Harry on mild alert is that the place looks completely empty. There’s a barista behind the counter who hasn’t even noticed him enter, probably thinking the waitress is back, reading some magazine and fiddling with a teaspoon. The aroma of baked goods is stronger here, and, surprisingly, it’s much more calming than the lavender outside. Harry files away the newly discovered fact that he’s probably food-conditioned for later, and goes further inside, the thick carpet muffling his footsteps.

Suddenly, he notices a figure at one of the tables, at the very far corner of the large room. Sitting by a white oak bookshelf is a man, hunched over a newspaper. He’s clearly a wizard—he’s wearing a set of day robes that Harry would normally categorise as ‘completely outrageous’ but he sets the thought aside, seeing that the man is a friend of Luna's. There’s a flash of a pair of shiny dragonhide boots under the table and a checkered flat cap on his head. Only when Harry squints a little, his eyes still adjusting to the dimly lit interior, he notices the man is holding a magnifying glass, hovering it so close to the paper he’s reading, he grazes the tip of his crooked nose with every turn of a page.

The waitress is back and she walks over to the occupied table. “Everything all right there, Archie?”

Harry can’t make out the man’s croaky response but sees him take off his hat and smile at the girl. And then, Harry’s stomach sinks.

The thing is, Harry has never considered himself a judgemental person. He’s more of an easy-going type of bloke—he helps people for a living, he recycles, he donates to charities without batting an eyelash. Additionally, he’s friends with Draco Malfoy, who, honestly, sometimes seems to be the most high-maintenance, dramatic person in the United Kingdom. Harry doesn’t judge. But he stares at his supposed _date_ and sees white tufts of fluffy hair styled around the bald top of his head and when the stranger smiles, Harry struggles to locate more than six teeth that are still attached to his gums.

Harry thanks all the deities he can name for having the foresight to cast a Glamour and simultaneously asks himself what exactly Luna was thinking when she set this up. This Archibald man must have been running from the Great Fire of London back in his day, which is in equal parts impressive and thoroughly disappointing. Maybe Luna belongs to some veteran club? Maybe she goes to places like that to unwind or hunt for Wrackspurts; maybe she’s actually their age and sucks the life force out of Ginny to stay young. 

The waitress is exchanging pleasantries with Archie, and Harry is having a tiny mental breakdown. Should he go through with it? Should he get the man’s hopes up? Knowing himself, Harry would feel bad about not being attracted to him and sit through the date out of politeness. Then, he would probably feel even worse for having to cut all ties, so he would lead the man on, probably invite him to the wedding, after spending a few sleepless nights thinking about sad, old, lonely people sitting in their stuffy homes and petting their cats, crying about their grandchildren not visiting anymore. And then, it would have gone too far to break it off and thus, Harry would wind up marrying the equivalent of his late grandfather because old people make him soft. Dear God, what if he invited Harry to his place afterwards? Harry shudders at the thought and, again today, wishes Draco was there to say something, anything that would make sense. More sense than Harry spiralling into planning a life with an old man he’s never met because apparently, Harry Potter can be guilted into marrying and spending his life with people who seem frail and helpless.

After a few more minutes of frantically going through every possible scenario, including the one where Archie leaves him for a younger Auror ( _Which, really, Archie? After all we’ve been through?_ ), Harry decides it’s best to leave. As he conducts a sneaky retreat, the barista finally notices him.

“Hullo, sir, can I help you?” He asks, eyeing Harry with suspicion. Harry can’t really blame him, seeing that he basically came to the café, startled a waitress using only his face, walked in, stared at their only customer for Merlin knows how long, and is now slowly backing out of the establishment.

Honestly, if he were staking out the place, Harry would arrest himself.

“Hi!” He says, his voice way too high to sound normal, confirmed by the barista’s brows riding a little higher up his forehead. “I’m— Uh, just. Just looking around.”

“O-kay?” The man is still staring and Harry’s glad they’re not in a Muggle bank where the clerks have those big, red buttons under their desks. “Well if you need anything—”

“No!” Harry can see the waitress turn in the corner of his eye and forces himself to keep it down.

Would buying her a coffee to say ‘sorry for traumatising you’ add to the creepiness? Merlin, is that how women feel when facing strange men? Harry nods stiffly to the barista and shuffles out as fast as his legs allow him. As the bell rings above his head once again, Harry wonders how many times in his life he was close to getting hexed or having the police called on him and makes a mental note to abstain from going alone to places in the future.

  


* * *

  


Draco is sitting in the revolving chair opposite Harry’s desk in his tiny vice-Head Auror office. He’s currently banging his fist on his sternum, choking on a biscuit he helped himself to right after he entered, not bothering to hide his unbelievable sweet tooth in front of Harry. Harry hesitates whether he should pour Draco a glass of water or watch the wanker choke to death, as right before this little incident, Draco almost tripped over backwards in the chair laughing after hearing about Harry’s disaster of a blind date.

Nobody would find Malfoy’s body, Harry thinks, he’s the vice-Head Auror, he knows how to cover his tracks.

Draco seems to be reading his mind—he still manages to flip Harry two fingers while in the middle of a coughing fit and gesture wildly to himself until Harry caves. He Summons a glass, fills it with a muttered Aguamenti and passes it to Draco.

When he finally gets his windpipe working again, Draco takes another swig for good measure and examines the glass.

“Nice efficiency there, Auror Potter,” he drawls, his voice still a little hoarse. “One feels reassured, with their life protected by Wizarding London’s finest.”

“Forgive me for being a little suspicious,” Harry says airily, hoisting his legs up onto his desk, “I get a little cagey when members of other departments barge into my office, eat my biscuits and fraternise with me.”

“I wonder how they give out promotions in the esteemed DMLE, if you confuse mockery with, ahem, _fraternising_ ,” Draco shoots back, his voice going a little strangled at the end.

“I wonder how you have any friends if you do the same,” Harry grins as Draco shakes his head with a cheeky smile.

“We Slytherins have our ways, clinging to idols and such,” he says with a laugh and leans in, propping his elbows on Harry’s desk. “Speaking of _slythering in_ , why didn’t you go through with it in the end?” Draco eyes him with curiosity.

Before Harry can start listing all the reasons he can’t and won’t date a man who’s probably five times his age, Draco takes another sip of his water and cuts in. “Wait, excuse me,” he says and sniffs the water.

Harry’s eyebrows go up. “Is there a problem?”

“This water,” Draco takes another cautious sip. “How do you do that?”

“Erm,” Harry tilts his head. “There’s this spell, you know? It’s called _Aguamenti_ and it—”

“Of for the— You know that’s not what I mean, you lackwit,” Draco glares at him with furrowed brows. “Your water is different than any I’ve ever tasted,” he says and examines the glass’ contents once again.

“That’s… hardly possible?” Harry says, wondering what on earth Draco means by that. “It’s just water. Is it bad?”

“I don’t expect you to taste the subtle difference between bottled water brands,”

“Correct,” Harry replies easily, snorting at Draco’s sour expression.

“ _However_ ,” Draco continues with an eye roll, “Summoned water is a different story entirely.”

“Draco.” Harry runs a hand through his hair. “I’ve had a rough night. If it’s bad, I can ask Claire to bring you the bottled kind. Or tea. Or coffee—”

“It’s not bad, it’s exquisite.”

“Come again?” Harry’s face feels a little warm. It’s not like he _tried_ to make it good. Is it even as good as Draco claims? It’s water.

“It… has the faintest sparkle, which I’ve never seen form from an Aguamenti,” Draco says, glancing at him in fascination. “And it tastes almost… like rose water.”

He takes another sip, not looking at Harry and hums quietly. It makes Harry sweat a little, feeling as if Draco was actually tasting his magic. Which is ridiculous.

Before Harry can get the conversation back on track, there’s a loud knock on his door and without waiting for his ‘I’m busy’, Ginny Weasley barges in with a content smile, Luna treading lightly behind her. Ginny plops down in one of the armchairs to the side, never taking her eyes off Harry, while Luna bends down over Draco to wrap her arms around his neck and kiss the top of his head, their blond hair mingling together into a shiny, moonlight mess. Draco smiles a genuine, soft smile up at her and Harry is transfixed for a second but then, Ginny pointedly clears her throat, smiling mischievously.

“Good morning, Harry, Draco,” she says, looking from one to the other. “Working hard, I see?”

“Ginny,” Harry says, his voice muffled by the force of Luna’s hug. She then walks over to the second armchair and sits down with a serene smile.

“Ginny,” he tries again. “How do you two keep coming in here?” Harry asks, genuinely baffled. “I have an assistant! The office is swarming with law enforcement! Seriously, how?”

“Because we’re your friends—”

“Yeah, right,” he scoffs.

“And your security is a joke,” Ginny adds calmly. Draco sniggers.

“That’s better. Also,”—he taps the nameplate on his desk—”unacceptable.”

 _“And_ we want to know how your date went.” With that, she leans forward, cupping her face in her hands.

Harry sighs with resignation. “And there it is.”

“You’re so good at deduction, Harry,” Luna says without a trace of sarcasm.

“Oh, yes, thank Merlin our streets are safe,” Draco pipes in, with an equally serious expression. “At this rate, all crime will be wiped out for good. Bless the DMLE.”

Harry wants to shove another biscuit down his throat.

“So?” Ginny prods.

Harry feels his general frustration with life has reached its peak. “So? _So?!_ ” Somewhere next to him, Draco chuckles under his breath, trying to cover it by taking another sip of water. “Let’s unpack that, shall we?” Harry says, his voice an octave too high. “Luna!”

“Yes, Harry?”

“The lad you set me up with, Archibald,” Harry starts. “Why him?”

Luna’s expression turns thoughtful. “Well, you said you wanted a companion. And Archibald is a lovely person—he’s very kind and polite, just like you!”

Harry deflates a little at that, his heart going soft. Damn lovely Luna and her pure intentions. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yes, Luna, I appreciate it, I really do, but I was thinking of a companion I could… I don’t know, potentially think about spending the rest of my life with?” He can feel Draco’s gaze boring into him so he decides to keep his focus on Luna. “Not—the rest of _his_ life, which would probably be, I don’t know, two months? From the looks of things?” Harry finishes and just knows he might look a little deranged.

Ginny regards him with a frown. “So what, he's older? Like, how many years are we talking?”

“Archie is turning 129 next month!” Luna exclaims, all giddiness and smiles. “Isn't that sweet? And he's in such great shape! He swore his knee wouldn’t stop him from dancing at the wedding!”

There’s a long, awkward pause. Harry flops down onto the desk and hides his face in his crossed arms. Finally, Ginny speaks. “Oh, babe.”

Draco looks at Luna with a smile. “129 years old, what a ripe age, indeed.” He turns to Harry and nudges the top of his head. “And Ol’ Noseless? He was, like, what? Seventy? I’m sure you could handle a more… refined gentleman.” His voice sounds a little choked and on one hand, Harry grateful for his restraint not to laugh in his face, and on the other, wishes Draco would get it all out of his system already.

“There's life in the old dog yet, as Ginny’s mum likes to say,” Luna says sagely.

Ginny turns ashen. “She says that? About my dad? No, wait,” she raises a hand, shuddering. “I don’t want to know. Harry,” she turns her attention back to him, clearly distraught with the mental image of her parents getting in on. Serves her right. “So I’m assuming his age would be a problem?”

Harry stares at her incredulously. “That’s someone’s grandfather!”

“Great-grandfather, actually! I think one of his grandchildren is roughly our age,” Luna says.

Harry wants to rip his hair out. Opposite him, Draco looks like he just found out he’s Minister of Magic. “And you didn’t think of setting me up with one of them?!” Harry shrieks, abandoning all hope of his voice ever dropping.

Luna stares, wide-eyed and innocent. “No.”

Ginny grabs her girlfriend’s hand and kisses her knuckles, shooting Harry a hard look. It makes him feel a little guilty—raising one’s voice at Luna is something no-one feels good about. In all honesty, she could probably saunter into Gringott’s and ask nicely to be given all the gold, and the Goblins would help her load it onto a cart.

“All right, so what did you do when you met him?”

Harry fiddles with a Muggle pen lying on his desk. The bad feeling he’s had since leaving without a word hasn’t subsided, lingering around the back of his mind.

“I… didn’t go. I bolted.”

“What?! Why?”

“Because I would have to marry him, Ginny!” He exclaims, panicked. He knows it’s nonsense, he doesn’t have anything reasonable in store. There are three sets of eyes on him and Harry tries to focus on Draco’s for some reason, this time wishing he would maybe turn it all around and say something witty, just to calm his raging nerves. It still sometimes amazes Harry, the inexplicable effect Draco has on him, how easily he can show him a completely different perspective with a comforting touch and some stone-cold logic. Harry supposes he does things to Draco, too—he can see it in small, fleeting moments, when he’s reminded Draco has that hidden soft side, that there’s something delicate deep down, and it has taken Harry several years to learn it, to coax it out with careful questions and furtive glances. It sends something rushing along his shoulders and inside his chest, to be allowed to see that side, to truly, organically feel he has a close friend in that strange, mean, pointy creature, and to break through that exterior and get to know the man inside.

“Harry. Where did… that conclusion come from?”

“I… might have spiralled when I saw him?” He says testily, as if it already weren’t bleedingly obvious. “I don’t know?” He throws his arms up, knocking the pen off his desk.

Harry takes a few calming breaths, absently wishing the biscuits smelled a little stronger and feeling hopelessly stupid.

Deflated, he asks: “Is he cross with me?”

“Oh not at all!” Luna rushes to comfort him. “I think he already forgot he had a date.” They all look at her in silence and she shrugs a little. “His memory is not what it used to be. For what it’s worth, he had a lovely time, Harry.”

Harry is decidedly not comforted by the fact someone enjoyed a date he didn’t show up to—it feels like a bitter metaphor for the entirety of his dating life.

“Oh, to be stood up by a celebrity in the Autumn of your life,” Draco muses, lacing his words with a playful note and Harry can’t help the small smile curving his lips. “How cruel, Potter, to put out a fire before it truly roars! To crave the touch of a young, deft hand that vanquished the darkness with an Expelliarmus,” Draco continues, spurred on by the girls’ giggles; his tone turns to full-on pathos, one hand clutching the front of his shirt, as he looks at Harry with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Harry scowls at him, unable to bring himself to be really angry. “Please stop.”

“The old and the young, clashing in an unrelenting whirlwind of passion—”

Harry grabs his wand and casts a tiny stinger that misses Draco’s mussed hair by an inch.

He lets out an outraged yelp while Ginny and Luna topple over laughing. “You did _not_ just try to hex me!”

“Stop reciting odes about me shagging a grandpa or I won’t miss next time!”

“Can you imagine that screenplay, though?” Ginny wonders.

Draco gestures to her, looking at Harry with madness. “Can you, Potter? Think of the people! Think of the Tony!”

“I’m cutting off your cable TV.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

Draco slowly stares him down. “I just might.”

“Is that a dare?”

“Scared, Potter?”

“You wish.”

Harry watches Draco’s tongue dart out to lick his lips and feels a rush of adrenaline go down his back. Their age-old rivalry has always made him reckless and impulsive; from time to time, they would half-consciously slip back into it and Harry revels in those moments, now even more exhilarating than back at school. Seeing that dangerous sparkle in Draco’s quicksilver eyes, the faint flush colouring his cheeks, sometimes a stray lock of blond hair falling over his forehead, and knowing that this time, it’s all in good spirits, just to make things interesting, just to spur Harry on a little… It’s intoxicating, it feeds the lion slumbering inside him to the point where all he wants to do is to grab the front of Draco’s shirt and slam him against the nearest wall. He never does, obviously—he rarely allows himself to think what Draco would do right then, whether it would put out the fire in his eyes or make it roar anew, awaken something in Draco as well, and where they would go from there.

It doesn’t stop Harry from being curious.

“Hey!” Ginny’s voice shakes them out of it. “We’re still here!”

Harry bats away the strange thoughts, filing them for later examination. “Yes, that’s the problem. Don’t you have anywhere else to be?”

“If you must know, we stopped by on our way to Magical Games and Sports,” Ginny says. “I have a bone to pick with them.”

“Well, your bone is on level seven, this is level two,” Harry replies. He doesn’t envy the people who got under Ginny’s skin—ever since she joined the Holyhead Harpies, she’s been relentlessly fighting for gender equality in magical sports which doesn’t sit well with some of the older members of the department. “Now, _please_ , get out of my office.”

She sighs. “Fine, we’ll leave you to…” she looks between Harry and Draco with a strange expression, something Harry can’t quite put his finger on. “Whatever’s going on here.”

The girls say their goodbyes and soon they’re gone so Ginny can fight the good fight against sad, old farts in ugly robes.

Suddenly, Harry’s stricken with realisation.

“Draco,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry I tried to hex you.”

Draco’s head whips up and he frowns at him, instantly knowing something’s wrong. “You missed me, which is worrisome for crime-fighting reasons, but ultimately fortunate for my beautiful face,” he tries, keeping his tone light but there’s still a lingering note of concern at Harry’s sudden remorse.

“Well,” he sniffs, “I remember a time I didn’t miss.”

The faint rumble of chair-wheels on the floor cuts through the silence and in the next second, there’s a firm, warm hand on his shoulder and Harry’s surrounded with the smell of citrus with a spicy note he’s never been able to name. “Hey. No.”

“I—”

“No. Harry,” Draco whispers and Harry’s throat feels tight at the use of his first name, something rare for Draco to do. “I believe we had this talk a long time ago.”

He plucks up the courage to look into the stormy grey eyes; Draco’s face is open like a book, emotions on display for Harry to read and he’s flooded with relief. Relief that Draco still stands by the words he said when Harry first brought it up, relief that they were able to move past it, that Draco is still eager to call him his friend after Harry almost murdered him in a murky bathroom. That Draco always rushes to reassure him, ready to repeat it a thousand times if needed—it’s something they have in common, two boys carrying a burden of guilt, lifting the other up when needed, making sure the other is okay.

“I’m sorry.”

“I had it coming, honestly.”

“Draco!”

“All right, all right,” he says and wraps an arm around Harry’s shoulders. Heavy, comforting, grounding. “But don’t be, though. It’s forgotten.”

Harry nods quickly, and Draco takes a breath as if he wants to say something else. He doesn’t remove his arm, curling his fingers around Harry’s shoulder. Harry wants to hug him over how much Draco _gets_ it.

“They’ll stop, you know. If you ask?” Draco says quietly. “They mean well but they’ll stop pestering you if that’s your wish.”

“I know,” he sighs. “I… thank you.”

His heart melts a little at the thought. Draco would rather die than admit out loud he cares about anything ever, so he shows it instead, and being on the receiving end of that fierce protectiveness is almost addictive. It must be a Slytherin thing, that unrelenting loyalty, the need to protect the ones who are close, important, the ones who matter. And what a wondrous thing it is, to matter to Draco Malfoy, to see him sneer at paparazzi in the streets, to have him ask Harry if he has eaten, to be asked for advice and have one’s opinion be of great importance. Deep down, Harry hopes that it’s also a _him_ thing, that it’s not only Draco’s nature but a direct effect of their friendship they both worked so hard to build.

Draco moves away and leans back in his chair. Harry follows him with his eyes and it has to be enough, his small smile and a glass of water have to suffice in showing Draco how much Harry appreciates him.

“I understand it can be… hard, to win with them.”

“Don’t you mean _us_?” Harry raises a questioning brow. “Don’t tell me you don’t have someone nice and proper in the store for me. I know how much you like to be right.”

Draco seems to deflate at that and Harry wonders if he said something wrong. The eyebrow crease is back and for a fleeting moment, Harry wants to ask, wants to drag that rolling chair back where it was seconds ago and say he’s sorry. For what, he doesn’t know, but Draco’s is suddenly biting his lower lip and pretending his cuff needs adjusting.

He clears his throat. “I… don’t know anyone who’d be…”

“Who’d be what?”

Draco smiles and Harry’s heart skips a beat. There’s something rueful tugging at the corners of Draco’s mouth, his gaze almost somber, as his steel-grey meets Harry’s green. “I have yet to meet a match for you, Harry Potter.”

They sit in companionable silence for a while, Harry still mulling over Draco’s words.

“Do you think I’m a bad person for not going through with it?” He asks abruptly.

“Well, since he doesn’t remember he had a date in the first place, I’d wager there’s no harm done,” Draco replies, snatching the last biscuit from the box.

“Right. But I still judged a person based on their looks and—”

“Harry,” he cuts him off. “We all do that. Say, there was a drunken college student in the streets, singing Irish songs, throwing up left and right,” he says. Harry snorts at that, the image of Seamus, of all people, popping into his mind.

“You thought about Finnigan, didn’t you.”

Hary shakes his head slowly. “I did, but I don’t know why.”

Draco chuckles. “Right. Would you invite him to a business lunch to talk wealth investment?”

“I’d invite him to lunch because he must be hungry and feeling sick,” Harry responds automatically, his Auror instincts kicking in. Judging by the indignant huff that escapes Draco, Harry already knows what he’s going to say.

“Dear _God_ , do you have to be so noble all the time—”

“I’m not! It’s either that or I’d have to arrest him for public indecency—”

“Yes you are, you too-fucking-pure-for-this-world—”

“What would _you_ do, then? Hex him?”

“—and it’s going to bite you in the arse one of these days—”

“ _You_ can bite me in the arse, bloody know-it-all—”

“I’m the voice of reason, you can’t automatically assume people are all smiles and sunshine—”

“I help people and I’ll stop when I die!”

“Why don’t you bake some bloody scones and hand them out in Azkaban—”

“You’re impossible!” Harry yells and realizes he’s laughing and he can’t stop, so he finds a piece of paper, crumples it in his fist and chucks it at Draco’s head. It hits him square in the forehead and Harry laughs even harder, seeing the utter shock on Draco’s face.

It doesn’t take long for Draco to start laughing too, the low, belly-deep rumble reverberating in the small room, crinkling the corners of his eyes and giving him an adorable, dopey look he would deny wearing under the threat of death. When they both calm down, Draco picks up the crumpled paper and unfolds it.

“Throwing your fan mail at me?” He asks, his eyebrows riding up to his hairline. “Circe, this managed to slip through the Ministry filters?”

Harry snatches the paper from his hands, too quick for Draco to do anything about it, and immediately incinerates it with a flick of his wrist. He ignores Draco’s soft gasp at the display of wandless magic and refuses to look in his direction. It’s not that it makes him uncomfortable—Draco always gets a strange glint in his eyes whenever Harry does it, ever since he stopped bothering to hide his powers, and it makes him feel… _seen._ He can tell Draco wants to say something, maybe that he likes what he’s seeing, maybe wants to learn it, too. It makes Harry’s palms sweat. He wonders what Draco would say if he ever knew about the Concealing Charms. About his tattoos.

They keep bickering back and forth and talk about pleasant things until lunchtime when they both leave the building and go to grab a bite in unspoken agreement. Draco subtly makes sure Harry’s okay, weaving seemingly innocent questions into their conversation with all his congenital restraint, tries to let him know he’s allowed to have preferences and it does make Harry feel a bit better. He’s not going to tell Draco that he’s the voice of reason, considering his head is already big enough as it is, but he appreciates it nonetheless, to have someone look out for his “Saviour Complex”, as Draco likes to call it, to tell him he’s enough and to stop him from burning out.

Draco doesn’t ask about any future dates and Harry’s grateful for that, too.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry’s standing in Ron and Hermione’s living room, bouncing George and Angelina’s son, little Fred, on his hip. The little boy gurgles happily as they both watch Hermione rummage around the living room, already wearing her coat, and Ron, standing in the doorway with a passive expression.

“I’m so sorry, Harry, I can’t believe they scheduled the cake tasting and forgot to tell us!” She calls from the bedroom, accompanied by some loud thuds and a few muffled curses. Harry makes a face at Ron—they’ve only heard Hermione swear a handful of times over the course of their nearly fifteen-year-old friendship and teased her mercilessly every once in a blue moon they had the chance to hear it. The rarity of such an occurrence only adds to the legend: Hermione Granger is not to be crossed.

Rita Skeeter and Draco Malfoy can vouch for that.

“Love,” Ron calls calmly, “we know, you said that four times already.”

Hermione emerges from their bedroom, her coat askew and frizzy hair sticking out in unbelievable directions. She’s scowling fiercely and Harry briefly makes sure she doesn’t have a wand in her hand. “And I’ll say it another twenty if I choose to!” She grits and begins a thorough search of the living room. “It’s so unprofessional—where’s my wedding binder!?—so, irresponsible, ugh!”

Hermione keeps muttering under her breath as she swipes through the spacious room like a very neat, competent tornado—every pillow she turns over goes back to its place, every drawer she opens gets immediately closed; she even folds the blanket back on the sofa with an efficiency that would make Molly Weasley herself take out a notepad.

While Harry doesn’t share her outrage, he gets it—Hermione, while being a wonderful, thoughtful, kind, and brilliant human being, is also very particular, responsible and conscientious. And to find out about such an organisational clusterfuck in regard to her own wedding—the woman is, quite understandably, vexed. Harry’s friends were supposed to spend the day with little Fred, while the baby’s parents are visiting Angelina’s family, when Hermione got a phone call from a terrified cake shop intern, who clearly must have drawn the shortest straw, informing her the pastry chef will be ready to see them for a tasting in roughly thirty minutes.

It’s not that Hermione is a _Bridezilla,_ as Draco and Ginny once explained it to Harry. And once he started seeing the little things—how much she worried about this day, one she had dreamed about ever since she was sixteen, how hard she was trying to make sure all her guests will remember it fondly, how overwhelming it got at times, especially on top of a job as demanding as hers—Harry understood it was sometimes way too easy to confuse being a tyrant with caring too much.

“Aren’t you even a little angry?” He glances at Ron. His friend shrugs as he watches his fiancée wrestle open a hidden compartment in the sofa with a grunt.

“Mate. I get to eat cake all day,” Ron says sagely, although there’s a happy little glint in his blue eyes. “I was supposed to eat cake next week, I find out I get to eat cake today. It’s a good day,” he nods as if confirming it in his heart. “Besides, ‘Mione needs a calming presence.”

Harry turns his head to see Hermione exclaim in triumph as she crouches on the carpet, wrenching out a thick binder, adorned with numerous colourful bookmarks, leaflets, and ribbons, from under the sofa. “Yeah, that’s fair.”

“Can you imagine if we were both so perturbed?” Ron asks. Harry whistles in response.

Hermione comes over, rifling through the binder. “I had my cake notes somewhere in here—”

“Thanks for filling in for us, Harry,” Ron says, draping Hermione’s scarf around her neck.

Harry smiles. “Not a problem, haven’t seen the little guy for a while,” he bounces the baby boy on his hip as the boy makes happy little gurgles and drools on Harry's t-shirt. “George and Angelina okay with this?”

Ron waves his hand in dismissal. “Sure they are, you know them. As long as the kid is with friends. I did give George a call to let him know, though.”

“And that babysitter you talked about? Couldn’t make it after all?”

“Uh, well.” Ron looks a little troubled, scratching his head thoughtfully. “She was, uh, supposed to come but we’ve sort of made her leave her niece’s birthday so it might… take some time.”

Harry frowns. “Couldn’t she have Apparated?”

“She’s a Squib so—”

Hermione’s suddenly by his side. “Maggie’s lovely! You’ll really like her, Harry!”

Harry pauses, his brain scrambling to process the implications of that statement. “Wait, she’s coming anyway?”

His friends cast a quick, nervous look at each other. Hermione tries to take cover using her hair and the binder, Ron suddenly seems very interested in modern art, examining one of the pictures on the wall.

And, just like that, Harry knows. “You two are hiding something,” he says with reproach.

Hermione is the first to speak so Harry assumes she was the perpetrator. “Don’t be ridiculous, what could we be hiding?”

“You’re refusing to look me in the eyes, Hermione, and— Ron!?” He cranes his neck so Ron actually looks at him, his freckles standing out in his red, guilty face. “You’re in on this!” Harry says, trying not to be too loud to startle little Fred, who’s looking at his aunt and uncles with huge, brown, curious eyes.

“No, I’m not!” Ron says, crossing his arms defensively.

Hermione gasps. “Ron!”

He looks from Harry to Hermione. “You two are really putting me between a rock and a hard place here,” he says in a strained voice.

Harry adjusts the baby in his arms and glares at them accusingly. “Did you two set this up?”

Hermione at least sounds remorseful which isn’t much of a consolation. “Maybe it’s just a happy coincidence?”

“Besides, she’s met me and George, you’ll be fine,” Ron adds.

Harry’s stomach sinks. “No. It can’t—” If it weren’t for the baby, he would probably take off his glasses so he doesn’t have to look at his friends. “Did you even tell her I’ll be here?!”

Hermione opens and closes her mouth a few times, looking for an answer that would be the least incriminating—Harry feels transported back to Hogwarts, it’s just now he’s McGonagall and Hermione is twelve years younger. “We… might have concealed the fact—”

Harry groans. “Wait. Wait, wait— A girl is coming over to babysit and she’ll find a grown man, who, might I add, _is not ginger_ , asleep with the baby in front of the telly!?” He pauses and adds: _“Possibly_ with a half-eaten box of pizza on the coffee table?”

Hermione scoffs, her hair bouncing all over the tiny hallway. “She’ll find a dashing young stranger who’s amazing with kids and who happens to be little Freddie’s uncle! It’s romantic! It’s what women want!” Ron doesn’t move but frowns deeply at the statement.

“It’s _unhinged_!” Harry whisper-shouts at her, low-key proud he’s not losing his temper while holding an infant. “I’m going to get punched in the jaw, aren’t I?” He asks miserably.

“Mate, just don’t fall asleep and don’t order any pizza,” Ron says like it’s obvious. While Harry’s usually grateful for his straightforward, Ockham’s Razor-esque solutions, he has a feeling it might not be enough this time.

“Freddie will tell her you’re his uncle,” Hermione says in a small voice.

Harry stares at her for a good ten seconds, frozen in disbelief. “He’s _one and a half_ and he calls everyone ‘dada’ so forgive me for thinking she might not take his word for it!” He grinds out, switching Fred to his other arm.

“You’re Harry Potter, I’m sure she’ll recognise you,” Ron reasons, but falls silent as soon as he meets Harry’s glare.

“I’m not sure which part of that statement I hate more,” he deadpans.

Hermione lets out a long, pained sigh. “Harry, could you maybe be a bit more… optimistic?”

“Oh sure, at least Muggle prison”—he covers the baby’s other ear with his hand— “isn’t as bad as _Azkaban_!” He hisses.

“Harry, would you stop with the dramatics, honestly, Draco is seriously rubbing off on you,” Hermione says and Harry tenses.

“What? He’s— No, he’s not? _Rubbing off_ on me? Why would you—” He opens his mouth but nothing is coming out.

_Is_ Draco really rubbing off on him that much? And if he is, is it a bad thing? Harry doesn’t think it’s a bad thing. He likes Draco, likes talking to him and spending time with him. Sure, the prat is just as dramatic as an Old Hollywood diva but he’s also sharp, and witty, and fierce, sometimes for the both of them. And as has recently become very relevant, Draco is his rock, no matter how ridiculous it may sound—he’s reasonable when Harry’s not, he’s strong when Harry can’t bring himself to be, and he’s always there when Harry needs him. And he doesn’t set him up with complete strangers behind his back like some traitorous (but caring) friends apparently do.

There are far worse people to rub off on him.

Ron and Hermione watch Harry scramble for words in silent indignance until Hermione takes pity on him.

“All right, we really have to go if we want to make it on time,” she says, shoes already on, coat buttoned. “Do try to have fun, Harry. You never know,” she adds with a cheeky smile. It seems like bloody Malfoy is rubbing off on everybody, and that’s a dirty joke Harry doesn’t want to think about.

“Fine,” he sighs. “If I’m not here when you come back, check the DMLE detention room, or, I don’t know, the Muggle police stations.”

Hermione ignores the jab. “And be good.”

“It’s not like we’re going to have Firewhisky and bet on Hippogriff fights, right Freddie?” Harry coos, kissing the top of the little boy’s nose. He lets out a tiny laugh and much more drool than a baby should be able to produce. “Bloody hell, and I thought it was going to be a peaceful evening.”

“Harry, language!” Hermione calls right before the door closes behind them. Harry can still hear Ron’s muffled voice for a few seconds, something along the lines of _love, he can’t understand him_ and then, there’s just Harry and his baby nephew.

“What do you say, Freddie,” he smiles at the little boy, “is Uncle Harry going to get his arse kicked? Yes, he is? Yes, he is!” Harry blows raspberries on the baby’s tummy and laughs as Freddie squeals with delight, swinging his pudgy baby fists in the air, almost knocking off Harry’s glasses in the process.

At least the kid is on his side, Harry thinks and braces himself for a very strange evening.

  


* * *

  


“And you’re sure you’ll be okay?” Harry asks _quietly_ , as there is a _sleeping baby_ in the bedroom.

“Positive!” Maggie replies and Harry tries really hard not to wince. God, the shrill on that woman.

Harry runs a hand through his hair and stubbornly decides to keep his voice down no matter what. “Thanks again for letting me use your phone,” he says.

“I’m glad your friend is coming over, it’s so _cute_!” She shoots him a bright smile and Harry tries to return it but only manages a small upturn in the corner of his mouth. “I feel so much better knowing you won’t be left alone with the baby,” she shouts and, honestly, Harry is going to Silencio her if she wakes Freddie again.

He darts a quick look at the bedroom door but there’s no sound coming from there, thank Merlin.

No sound _this time_.

“Yeah, I really— he’s— a good lad.” _Good lad?!_ A vision of Draco Malfoy’s face right after being called ‘lad’ pops into his head and Harry bites his tongue to stop himself from snorting and making things even worse. “I can call you a cab,” he tries, feeling a little bad, but not bad enough to offer to walk her down the stairs.

All right, now he feels bad.

_It’s not like you can leave Freddy alone. Or what, wake him up?_ A voice in his head says, eerily similar to Draco’s.

“Oh, no, I’ll be _fine_!” Maggie says (squeals) and picks up her bag. “It was _so_ nice to meet you, Harry!”

“Yeah, uh, you too,” he says awkwardly. “I’ll… see you around.”

The door closes before he finishes the last sentence.

Well, that was a disaster, if Harry’s ever seen one. He leans on the nearest wall with a tired groan and tries to process the awkwardness out of his system. It’s ridiculous, frankly, to get secondhand embarrassment from other people’s actions—he didn’t even do anything wrong! At least he thinks so.

It’s done anyway, it’s not like Harry can find a Time-Turner and go back a few hours, preferably to get hit by a car so he wouldn’t have to come here and… Now he sees what Hermione meant with the _rubbing off_.

  


* * *

  


Harry quietly treads to Ron and Hermione’s bedroom, casting a dim, wandless Lumos, and opens the door just enough to get his head through the crack. He smiles at the tiny orb of golden light in his palm and sends it floating into the room. It flutters over little Freddie who’s, thankfully, still fast asleep, snoring softly in the makeshift crib Harry had Transfigured for him. Harry can’t really blame the little guy for being that knackered, he’s had his fair share of rude awakenings today.

He goes back to the living room and flops down on the couch, sighing softly at the blissful silence engulfing him like a safety blanket. The telly is off, the windows are closed, the baby is asleep and Harry lets himself enjoy it for a few precious minutes. Inevitably, his thoughts divert back to the last hour and a half, to Maggie and, in consequence, to what on earth Hermione and Ron were thinking.

The babysitter arrived about an hour after his friends left and by that time, Harry had decided to just roll with it—knowing his tendency to dive into things headfirst, he was more partial to see what happens than to think about the possibilities of what might have been for the next week. Maggie seemed nice enough—dark skin, curly hair, and a pleasant smile showing off her even, white teeth. Harry never expected something like that to matter to him that much, but after the Archie Calamity, he was positive he liked teeth. As in, he liked it when they were _there_. They made their introductions and after Maggie loudly announced her name and just how lovely it was to meet him, Harry shot her a weak smile and politely asked her to keep it down as he had just put Freddie down for a nap. Maggie laughed (again, loudly) and whispered a theatrical _sorry,_ putting her finger over her lips.

And, in all honesty, they were nice lips—Harry had to admit she was a very pretty girl but no matter how pretty the lips, the sounds coming from them were absolutely unacceptable. He miserably thought that all his internal monologues about not being judgemental while virtually judging people should be somewhat of an indication of some kind of cognitive dissonance but that was a topic for another time entirely.

Everything about Maggie was nice, pretty and proper. Everything was just as one would expect it to be in a young girl. Everything except for her shrill, high-pitched, Merman-out-of-the-water, Mandrake-out-of-the-soil voice which she was unable to bring down an octave or two (or five) no matter how many times Harry had asked. And no matter how lovely of her it was to show up to what she had initially thought would be a baby takeover, it was still utterly baffling how the woman had ever gotten her job in the first place. 

Harry, as nice a boy as he ought to be, invited her inside, offered her a cup of tea and they sat down in the living room to chat. In another universe, it might have been a lovely evening—with little Freddie fast asleep, they should have been able to spend some time getting to know each other and maybe even think about meeting up again, if things went well. That’s what usually happened, as in, to normal people. Harry never had high expectations regarding the amount of insanity and chaos in his life, not since he was eleven years old. But even the most demanding, biased bystander would have admitted it was bordering on impossible—to chat up a girl whose voice would wake up a corpse, not to mention a baby. Which, given that they were babysitting, prevented said talking up from ever occurring. Every time Harry heard small whines from the other room—and that was _all the time_ —he jumped from his seat to check up on his nephew. It was heartbreaking, to see the poor little baby so tired and fussy he could only cry to indicate that all he wanted was some peace and quiet.

After the fifth time he had to help Freddie calm down and try and put him back to sleep, Harry thought he might burst out crying himself and lay down with the kid in a bout of solidarity. As if that wasn’t enough, Maggie seemed completely oblivious to the fact that it was her fault, trying to suggest Harry let the baby cry itself out and fall asleep, or check its nappy. But his nephew’s reaction was just a confirmation of the impression Harry already had—Maggie’s voice was too grating to keep the night going and Harry was racking his brain for a solution to the pickle he had found himself in. Finally, the opportunity presented itself, a wondrous gift, perhaps from Karma herself; his companion scrolled through her phone and, apologising profusely, informed him there was a family emergency and she needed to go see her grandmother right away.

Harry silently blessed the old woman and wished her a long and happy life.

When Maggie was getting her jacket, Harry paused for a second, a silly idea forming in his head. He ran to the kitchen while Maggie stood in the hallway with a bored expression, tapping her fingernails against the screen of her phone, the one and only courtesy she was going to give him that night. Harry searched the fridge door, looking between colourful magnets, magical postcards, grocery lists and Alarm-Charmed reminders until he found it—an elegant, white business card with a phone number printed in a minimalist font, charmed to interchange with the name of the card’s owner.

The girl was a little surprised to find out Harry doesn’t own a Muggle mobile phone, as most wizards these days have already adapted the wonders of Muggle technology the Magical World was yet to offer. Harry didn’t like the idea of anyone being able to get his number, especially with his kind of notoriety, so he chose to keep relying on his trusty Floo and his friends’ Patronuses. Hermione liked to say it made him seem down-to-earth, Draco liked to say it made him a crazy hermit, and Ginny liked to say it made him an old, old man. Harry, though, liked to say it just made sense.

Struggling a little at first, Harry managed to send a text message with an address and a question, signing his name at the end. Being a paranoid law enforcement officer, magical or not, he made sure he deleted the message after sending it. Maggie must have seen the heartfelt gratitude on his face when he handed the phone back because she shot him a bright smile, they exchanged a few pleasantries, and the babysitter from the Shrieking Shack was gone.

He eyes the remote stuck between the sofa cushions. After everything that’s happened, Harry’s not really in the mood to put the telly back on. Not even Graham Norton will manage to make him smile right now.

  


* * *

  


Harry opens the door and he can’t help but happily grin at the horror on Draco’s face.

“Potter—” He says and pauses, then licks his lips and tries again. “You have a child in your arms.”

“Hi,” he says and takes Fred’s hand, waving it at Draco. “Meet little Freddie.”

“That’s a baby,” Draco says dumbly.

“I’m amazed at your observation skills,” Harry deadpans. He lets Draco inside and closes the door. “Care to join the Aurors? We could use men like you,” Harry says, following Draco into the living room.

Draco’s still and quiet as he keeps staring, his eyes following Harry’s every move, regarding him from the top of his head, down his arms, and zoning in on the tiny baby boy who bravely stares right back with a clear mutual fascination. He hasn’t replied to Harry’s jab and, knowing Draco, it was reason enough to be concerned.

“He’s… not mine,” Harry says, feeling stupid he even needs to clarify that but Draco looks like there’s some intense thinking going on inside his head—his lips are a little parted and he’s blinking too much. His hand fiddles with the collar of his shirt and after some mild struggle, he manages to open the top button.

Harry raises a brow and Draco seems to notice his strange behaviour. He smooths down the front of his shirt and coughs. “ _Obviously_. Judging by the alarming amount of freckles, I’m assuming he’s a Weasley,” he says airily, his voice a little strained.

Harry rolls his eyes with a smile, bouncing Freddie a little. “You would be correct. And he’s staying with Uncle Harry today, isn’t he?” He asks the little boy and is rewarded with a happy gurgle. Harry turns him to face Draco and points a finger at him. “And look, Uncle Draco’s here, too!”

Draco lets out a choked sound, his face going bright red. Harry wonders if it’s because small kids make him uncomfortable—every time they happen to meet one of their friends’ kids, Harry’s usually the one to gather them in his arms, bounce them around and introduce them to ‘Uncle Draco’. And every time, Draco looks like he’s about to have a stroke.

“I am no uncle,” Draco says haughtily. “It makes me sound like an old sop with a moustache.”

They settle in the living room and Draco instinctively finds the remote and starts flipping through the channels, finally choosing some game show so it acts as background noise more than any actual entertainment. Harry watches his profile and shakes his head quickly. “Ew, no, don’t ever grow a moustache.”

Draco scoffs. “Don’t be daft, I’m not a pencil pusher.”

Harry snorts at that, causing Freddie to squeal in delight. Feeling Draco’s eyes on him, he kisses the top of his nephew’s head.

“I feel like Weasley is the type of man who will have one in the future,” Draco muses, nestling himself comfortably on the sofa.

“Ron?” Harry shrugs with a smile. “Well yeah, sure, I think it would suit him.”

Draco grimaces. “Really? A big, fuzzy, ginger moustache—”

“Oh, you don’t mean a baby,” Harry cuts him off and they both laugh. Harry shakes his head. “What’s with you and the facial hair? Is it envy?” He cranes his neck to take a closer look at Draco’s face, making sure not to drop Fred in the process. He squints. “Can you even grow any?”

Draco scoffs with all the aristocratic pique he can muster. “I bloody well can! I just choose not to obscure,” he waves a slender hand around his jaw, “all this.”

Harry lets out a weak laugh and props his head against the backrest. He can’t really argue with that, can he? Of course Draco’s good looking. It’s an objective thing. He’s still a little pointy and… angular, but he’s filled out since they were in school and his bone structure now only lends his features some considerable refinement. His eyes are steel-grey but their hue changes subtly depending on the lighting and, as Harry has learned over the years, Draco’s mood as well. And there are a few very faint, very delicate speckles of warm gold if one is allowed to look at Draco close enough—they seem to sparkle when he laughs, and look as if they were on fire when he’s angry. Draco’s hair has changed since the War, too. He never slicks it back anymore, having once admitted to Harry, after quite a lot of pestering and even more wine, he never liked the look and only wore them like that to please his father. Since Lucius Malfoy has been out of the picture for quite some time, so has Draco’s old hair and Harry felt strangely moved by that, to see Draco finally be his own person. He now wears it shorter in the back and longer at the top, with a tousled, moonlight-coloured fringe falling over his forehead—it makes him look more approachable, softer, more… Draco.

“Draco?”

“You’re done staring?”

Harry flushes. “I wasn’t staring.”

“I’m not growing a beard to prove a point.”

“I’m not asking—” Harry chuckles. “I think there’s enough facial hair between the two of us,” he says, absently scratching at his beard. It’s very neat, even if Harry says so himself, and he keeps it short—he’s been told it makes him look more refined and goes well with his position, uniform, and status. Harry doesn’t really care about all that, he just likes the way it feels and—quite frankly—hates razor blades with a passion, only resorting to them for… other areas, while also being absolutely pants at Shaving Charms. He hopes it doesn’t look too bad. The beard, that is.

Draco licks his lips. “Quite true.”

“I still don’t believe you could grow one,” Harry adds with a smirk.

“And you shall live in eternal nescience for I will not fall for this obvious provocation.”

“And here I thought you liked a challenge,” he says wryly.

“Please.”

“Fine, here’s another one: help me put this little rascal to sleep.”

“Fine, I will,” Draco says and stands up, sounding like he intends to make Freddie sleep so hard, he’d sleep through Doomsday just to prove Harry wrong.

Harry takes Freddie, who’s already looking a little droopy, his eyes closing more and more, and the three of them step inside the bedroom. Harry carefully puts the baby in the crib and strokes his tiny, adorable little face until he settles. It doesn’t take long before he’s fast asleep and they leave him there, setting an Alarm Charm in case he wakes up. They talk quietly and Draco once again proves to be that soft, calming presence that makes everything a little bit more bearable—although he would probably scoff at the fact that being able to keep his voice down is an achievement in Harry’s eyes.

“That was fast,” Draco points out, switching the telly off and settling against the pillows. Harry sits down close, their shoulders bumping, and feels he can finally take a well-deserved breather.

“He ate just before you came so it was a matter of time before he was out,” Harry says. “Babies are sort of like Ron. Not that hard to manage once you figure it out.”

“How do you… know all these things?” Draco glances at him with barely restrained suspicion, as if Harry secretly owned a daycare service and trained himself in baby-whispering on unsuspecting strangers’ kids while fighting crime at night.

“Oh, I babysit Teddy sometimes, when Andromeda needs me,” Harry shrugs. He loves little Teddy to bits and sometimes misses the boy when they don’t see each other for too long; after the War, Harry promised himself he’ll be the best godfather he can—for Remus, for Tonks, for Teddy, and maybe a little for himself, too. In the beginning, he was terrified he would screw up the kid—an orphaned war veteran with a Saviour Complex, several scars and even more issues—but it quickly turned out nobody in Andromeda’s household has survived that time unscathed and Harry built quite a strong bond with his godson. Looking back, it was an experience that shaped both of them, and Harry was infinitely grateful for another sliver of love and hope Teddy’s presence has brought into his life.

Draco does a double-take, turning to face Harry. “She has never asked _me_ to babysit?! And we’re related by blood!” If there’s a little bit of hurt in his voice, Harry chooses not to address it for now, focusing on Draco’s childish ‘ _I want one, too_ ’ syndrome. It comes to light as a result of Draco’s upbringing during which the little blond prince could ask his filthy rich parents for whatever he wanted and then subsequently be handed said object, to no-one’s surprise. It was manageable these days—Draco has mostly grown out of his old habits but since those tend to die hard, it resurfaces in the silliest moments, never failing to make Harry laugh.

He smiles at the crease between Draco’s brows, entirely more adorable than worrisome. “Draco. What do kids eat?” Harry asks and is treated with a patented murderous glare and an irritated scoff.

“Well, he’s almost nine so I’m assuming breastfeeding is not needed anymore!” He pauses at Harry’s amused look. “I would… Order something?” He waves his hands chaotically as if the air between them carried all the answers he needed, perhaps with a little help from Teddy himself, who’s unfortunately absent to settle the debate.

“When I’m not there, you only order from Scandale Royale, and that’s only on Fridays which means the kid’s either having scallops or starving. And the odds of scallops are one to seven.” He doesn’t comment on the breastfeeding as the image is already quite disturbing in itself and Harry shudders to think there might exist some Spells to facilitate that particular process when one finds themself lacking in the lactation department.

“Their scallops are exquisite!” Draco hisses, momentarily abandoning the defence of his nonexistent childcare skills for the defence of his extraordinary taste buds and their superior seafood preferences.

“Draco, he’s eight! He will only eat pancakes if I cut smiley faces in them, and he might indulge me and have some chips but only if I individually dip every single one in ketchup for him! And then, I still have to pretend they’re broomsticks flying into his mouth,” Harry shoots back, his memory providing him with a list of made-up broom brands he always carries at the back of his mind, ready to be whipped up to appease the showmanship cravings of an eight-year-old.

“Children are so fussy,” Draco grimaces, indicating that the whole idea is preposterous, that cutting smiley faces in pancakes is lunacy, and that putting such ungodly amounts of ketchup on a single serving of chips is nothing short of overkill. Harry’s glad he didn’t mention the broom sounds he’s usually required to make as well.

“Yeah, _they’re_ fussy.”

Draco sniffs, perfectly aware of the irony yet always unwilling to acknowledge it, no matter how much against the wall he finds himself.

“Tell you what,” Harry relaxes against his shoulder, easing into their casual closeness with a relaxed sigh. “I’ll invite you to join us next time,” he murmurs, knowing it would make Draco happy.

“I’ll… consider it,” he says with a grumpy note lacing his tone, but there’s something pleased in there as well and Harry chuckles softly.

“I’ll cut smiley faces in your pancakes, too,” he adds enticingly, turning his head to look at the side of Draco’s face.

“Do not patronise me,” he says, his resolve breaking a little, piece by piece, as Harry sees a tiny smile starting to spread.

He laughs, bumping his head against Draco’s shoulder. They stay like that for a while and the only things Harry can hear is Draco’s soft breaths and the muffled sounds of Muggle cars outside.

“Cinnamon,” Draco says quietly.

“What?”

The little curve turns into a proper smile. “Chocolate chip is basic. I like cinnamon.”

“Duly noted, you git,” Harry says, quiet and private. He files the information away, puts it in a little drawer labelled _Draco_ , next to the list of his favourite tea brands, amongst scattered notes on the biscuits he likes, things he needs but won’t admit out loud, and things he thinks about himself but aren’t true. Some of those things are too big and important to fit in drawers so Harry learns those and commits them to memory, remembers Draco won’t always wear them like a heart on a sleeve, raw and alive; those things are rare and fleeting like a dream—Harry sometimes wakes up and can’t remember if they’re actually true.

But that’s all right, Draco’s always there to tell him.

“Potter.”

“Yeah?”

“Why did you need me here?” The question hangs in the air and Harry isn’t sure anymore, only knows that Draco made this disappointing night better by just showing up. It feels too big to say for some reason, like Draco would maybe laugh at him or ask him to elaborate and Harry has no answer to that, not yet.

“I needed help with the baby,” he says unconvincingly.

Draco huffs. “Please. We both know you’re fantastic with children and we’ve pretty much established my idea of something as simple as infant nutrition is vague at best.”

“I just wanted company?” He tries, annoyed at the telling warmth at the tips of his ears. It’s not like it should be something embarrassing.

“That’s better,” Draco says softly, a questioning note ringing at the end of the sentence.

“All right, fine,” Harry sighs. “I also maybe wanted to vent. You won’t believe what Ron and Hermione did. Well, I’m pretty sure it was… eighty per cent Hermione.”

Draco turns a bit on the sofa, smirking. “That still makes Weasley twenty per cent accountable. I’m all ears.”

  


* * *

  


“And it was really as bad as you say?”

They’re sitting next to each other on the large sofa, Draco with his legs outstretched and Harry close to his side, heads almost together, talking quietly. Harry has recounted the whole story to Draco whose pale eyebrows rode higher by the minute as he laughed at Harry’s dramatic depiction and the evident distress that accompanied them.

It’s refreshing to talk to him, Harry thinks; Draco’s voice is always smooth and low, and sometimes it’s so calming, Harry wants to ask him for a story, just to listen a little bit more.

Which is a silly thing to think of in the first place, but there it is.

“Have you ever heard a Howler?” Harry asks testily and Draco inclines his head. “That’s it, like, in terms of pitch.”

Draco frowns. “Nobody has a voice like that.”

“Would I exaggerate if it weren’t the case?”

Draco opens his mouth and pauses. “Absolutely. Yes.”

“Tosser,” Harry laughs and hits him with the closest pillow. Draco grabs it and they play-fight over it until it flies to the coffee table, almost knocking over a glass bowl placed in the middle. They freeze and watch it swivel dangerously until it settles down with a warning thud and they both chuckle, quietly settling back, with Harry’s knees against Draco’s thighs, facing each other.

“So,” Draco clears his throat. “No magic happened today?”

Harry lets out a heavy sigh, half-relieved, half-wistful; it ruffles Draco’s hair a bit and he smiles sheepishly. “None, except for the Reparo I had to cast on the vase over there,” Harry points to the nearest bookshelf where a jade green vase stands, inconspicuous and without a trace of any damage. Harry hopes Hermione won’t use any Diagnostic Charms when she gets back.

Draco looks at him in question.

“Freddie and I were playing Hungry Hippogriffs,” me mutters, blushing slightly.

“Right,” Draco says, biting down a grin.

“But yeah. And no chemistry either, like, none.”

“Hey.” Draco nudges his wrist with one finger, and Harry watches the pale skin contrast with his warm brown. “Is this the part where I give you a pep talk, Auror Potter?”

“It… wouldn’t hurt, I guess.”

“You should stop worrying about meeting people so much. I’m certain you won’t be going alone to that wedding,” Draco says, his voice going quiet.

“How do you know?”

“Because—” Draco clears his throat again. “Because you’re _you_. You’re good, Potter. You’re selfless to a fault, you care about people, you’re… not terrible looking, either.”

They both snort. Harry’s face feels a little warm and he can’t say he’s not pleased by the sentiment. Coming from Draco, it must mean something.

One of these days, Harry should maybe think about what exactly it means. To him, to Draco. Not now. Just, at some point.

“How did it happen for you?” Harry asks instead, nor sure what _it_ is yet.

“Have you seen anyone on my arm lately?” Draco raises a brow, his tone just a little bit on the side of rueful.

“I didn’t mean—” Harry suddenly feels hot, hesitant to articulate what he really wants to ask. “I mean—”

Draco saves him from saying it and it’s equally welcome as it is terrifying. “You mean sex,” he says calmly.

Harry can’t bring himself to look at Draco, not now, not when he has just asked a question so personal, Draco would be right to tell him to fuck off and stop sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. He risks glancing up and sees Draco smile easily, without any awkwardness, and Harry thinks about friendships in American Muggle films, how the characters understand each other without a word, how they tell each other the silliest, deepest, or most private things and how much of that can be translated to him and Draco.

Harry looks at him and waits, thinking that the story of the two of them would make a good movie.

“Well. A little over a year after you, oh-so-gloriously, vanquished Voldemort, also known as the rotten apple of my father’s eye, I was still living with Mother at the Manor. Of course, only after a thorough deep-cleaning, several Curse Breaking sessions, which cost a _fortune_ these days by the way, and some serious redecorating,” Draco starts and Harry listens patiently, understanding how Draco may be stalling a little, maybe trying to wrap his head around the whole story. “She had several friends come down from France to visit, possibly to regain some semblance of normalcy,” Draco smiles ruefully. “One of them had a son our age, and, well. You probably know the rest.”

Harry doesn’t, not really. “And you just, er. Hit it off?”

Draco hums. “He would… accost me, at times and, well, I obviously didn’t mind, being nineteen, horny and repressed. And then, I went to France for my Potions Apprenticeship which made things considerably easier,” he says. “Mind you, he wasn’t some great big love of my life, it was purely physical,” Draco adds, as if reading Harry’s mind. “We kept doing it until…”

“Until what?” Harry asks and hopes the lighting is bad enough so that Draco can’t see the pink flush spreading on his face.

There’s a pause. “His mother found out.” Draco’s voice is down to almost a whisper as he brings his fingers to ghost over his left forearm. He does that sometimes, in moments when he’s reminded of his past, when all the bad things that happened to him bubble to the surface and Harry finds himself wanting to knock that hand away and wrap his fingers around Draco’s faded mark. He once told Harry being able to see it is grounding, like an anchor in reality when his thoughts become too much, and Harry remembers hugging him then and looking at his own reflection in a window glass behind Draco’s back, his own scar stark against his forehead.

They both know something about dark reminders, ones etched into their skin against their will.

“Holy shit,” Harry breathes, not liking where the story is going.

“Indeed.”

“And… what happened?” he asks, but somehow already knows.

“What do you think?” The corner of his mouth upturns in a small smile. “It was over. She had no idea her son was into men. There was a huge scene and she threatened to tell my mother, to ruin our name,” he sneers. “Like there was anything left to ruin, honestly.”

“And what did you do?”

For a second, Harry gets a glimpse of the old Draco when a slow, vicious smile stretches his lips. He’s watching Harry carefully, with a knowing glint in his eyes. “I made her realise that it takes two to tango, so to speak. And if there’s any name-ruining bound to happen, there’s plenty of space in the headlines to fit two names,” he says darkly.

“You were scared people would find out?” Harry asks, a little puzzled—Draco never hid his preferences as an adult and thinking of him hiding in the closet didn’t sit well with Harry for several vague reasons.

“No, but she was,” Draco says simply. “After… the War and everything, I—” He takes a breath. “I wasn’t going to let anyone threaten me. Not for something that’s not evil.”

“Were you out back then?” Harry asks, trying to put it all together.

“Not for another year or so.” Draco searches his face and shakes his head with a smile. “Potter, I knew I was gay since I was ten years old. I saw a Quidditch magazine with a Stuart Partridge spread, you know, the one that used to play Chaser for Puddlemere?”

“So why— I mean, that’s,” Harry trails off, biting his lip.

Draco finishes the question for him. “Why did I come out so late?” He flashes Harry a smile, his perfect, white canines glinting in the dim light. “You see, I didn’t think all the Death Eaters in my family or Voldemort couchsurfing in my house would care much for hearing about my journey to self-realisation,” he says with an amused snort.

Harry chuckles at the image of Draco coming out to Voldemort, asking for boy advice. Something stings in his chest at the thought that after so many years, they’re finally able to joke about those things. “That’s… fair.”

“My friends knew, though. The closest ones. Pansy, Blaise, a few others.”

“And nothing after… that?” Harry doesn’t know why he’s asking, why he’s so curious about Draco’s private life, or about the people he’s been with. He thinks about the last few years, about the future ahead of them and can’t really bring himself to picture Draco getting married, or even dating some faceless, imaginary man. It unsettles Harry in a very strange way, makes something ugly roll in his stomach and for a second, he feels like the shittiest friend in the world—that emotion he can’t quite name shouldn’t be there, prodding against his ribcage like a thorn, poisoning and tainting his conscience.

It’s hard to imagine a person who would deserve his friend though, someone who could treat Draco how he should be treated, and Harry doesn’t know where all that protectiveness is coming from but he’s long abandoned his pursuit for a reason behind all the complicated feelings he has in regard to one Draco Malfoy.

“Some brief flings, a few hookups. Nothing to write home about,” Draco says amusedly.

“How are you so calm about this?”

“You’re suggesting I should panic?”

Harry lets out a small laugh and turns his head on the headrest, facing Draco. “No. I just… maybe envy that a little.”

“What’s there to envy?” Draco asks quietly. “It’s not like any of it matters now.”

“I wish…” Harry lets out the breath he’s been holding. “I wish someone would accost _me_ already,” he says, releasing a shaky laugh.

Draco watches him, eyes travelling across Harry’s face, careful and delicate, almost scared, like he’s expecting Harry to disappear. “I— “

It strikes Harry how close they are. Almost too close to breathe, definitely too close to excuse it in any way. He can see Draco’s eyelashes, how they turn a pale blond halfway down their length, how the nearly translucent tips curve upward and glimmer infinitesimally, so fleeting and easy to miss. The scent of citrus and spice is suddenly strong and heady and he wonders if it’s because of that one open button, if it’s cologne or Draco’s skin and whether it’s even stronger in the hollows of his collarbones. There are so many things to learn about him still, Harry thinks, and it makes his head spin, and then his heart stutters as he realises Draco is watching him too, gingerly, like a butterfly locked in a glass case, too beautiful and fragile to touch. So Draco just watches, maybe he has been watching for longer than Harry thinks. And just like a dead butterfly, he feels pierced through and pinned down to his spot.

“I would—” Draco’s voice comes out a broken whisper but his eyes tell a different story—emotions flash behind the steel curtain, too fast to decipher, to catch even a single one and hold on to it, just so everything else would stop spinning.

“You would what?” The question leaves him empty and Harry feels it might be dangerous—it’s like burning the last bridge on his way to Draco, just sitting before him like that, breathing the same air and asking about things that feel final when they shouldn’t be.

Draco’s mouth is slightly open and looks just as soft and dry as Harry’s own feels.

A loud cry comes from the bedroom and Harry starts but stubbornly holds Draco’s gaze.

Draco moves to get up but Harry wraps his fingers around his wrist, lightly, trying to catch a breeze that’s already gone. “Draco.”

Draco’s Adam's apple bobs visibly at the column of his throat; Harry follows the movement with his eyes and he feels Draco’s hand slip from his as his pulse quickens. When he finally speaks, his voice is shaky. “I would be just a little more patient.”

And just like that, the moment is over and it feels like switching back to reality from a lucid dream, like waking up in the middle of a crowded street after having sleep walked for three years. The sounds from outside are audible again—cars pass by, people keep walking and Harry has to keep breathing.

He lets go of Draco’s wrist.

“I’m— going to check on Freddie,” he says, forcing a weak smile. It’s all fine.

Draco doesn’t move but responds with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Of course.”

  


* * *

  


Harry goes to check on the baby, wondering how long before Ron and Hermione come back home. He tries not to think of it as the time he has left alone with Draco. This is just today, they have plenty of time. They’re friends.

It’s fine. Everything’s fine.

Freddie isn’t too keen on the idea of going back to sleep so Harry brings him along to the living room. Draco is quiet, almost subdued and Harry doesn’t know what to say to make it go away, to restore the balance from twenty minutes ago before he opened his idiotic mouth and asked all the wrong questions. The conversation is a little stilted but the baby acts like a tiny, gurgling buffer and soon, they’re back to their usual banter, arguing about kids’ names (Aramantha is a horrible name and Draco must be insane to think it sounds distinguished) and betting who will get married next (Harry’s money is on Ginny and Luna, Draco has a feeling about Dean and Seamus). They put on the telly in the background and it acts as a small distraction. Something clenches in Harry’s stomach when he casts a sideways look at Draco who’s pretending to watch some medical show, knowing full well that Draco can’t stand the sight of blood. The crease between his brows doesn’t disappear until they all doze off with the baby napping on Harry’s chest sometime later.

All three of them wake up with a start when they hear keys turning and feel the short-lived, cool breeze of wards being taken down (Hermione insists on double safety measures). Preparing for a bit more of a commotion than when there was just the two of them, Harry sneaks away to put sleeping Freddie back in his crib, taking advantage of the kid’s superpower to fall asleep anytime, anywhere.

He’s back just as Ron and Hermione step inside; his friends stop in their tracks and take in the scene before them—Draco splayed in an armchair with the expression of someone who’s just pulled off a successful heist and Harry, settling down into the second one, smiling easily and feeling a little relieved.

“Welcome home,” he says and spreads his arms with a wide smile. “The baby is alive, the flat is intact, Draco’s here. He’s not helpful at all.”

“I think we broke them,” Draco says noncommittally, picking invisible lint off his sleeve.

Ron is the first one to snap out of it. “That’s… new,” he says, tilting his head.

“Not really, it isn’t,” Hermione shrugs helplessly and takes off her coat.

Ron is, apparently, not getting on with the program just yet as he squints at Draco. “Since when does Malfoy babysit for my brother?

Draco makes a face. “Excuse me?”

“Harry where’s Maggie?” Hermione asks and sits down on the sofa, putting her feet up on the coffee table—a clear sign she’s had a very long day.

“She had a family emergency and had to leave and I—” he side-eyes Draco who’s looking at him with an amused sort of expectancy. “Wanted company?” Harry finishes lamely, rolling his eyes. It sounds like Draco’s a secret mistress and they’ve been found out by Harry’s disapproving family. Draco’s already smirking which makes Harry believe he thought the exact same thing.

Ron joins them and sits down next to Hermione. “Well, what about Freddie?”

“Oh yeah, Ron, he’s great at conversation, as soon as he’s done pooing and drooling,” Harry deadpans and Draco makes a disgusted sound.

“Wait, a _family emergency_?” Hermione says with a funny lilt to her voice and frowns; Harry knows Draco’s does the same, both looking at him like he said something crazy.

“Yes? Something about her grandmother getting sick,” He explains.

“Oh, is she okay?” Ron pipes in, brows furrowed in concern.

Hermione falls back against the sofa, looking up at the ceiling as if it held a solution to the mystery of why Harry is like this. Next to him, Draco snorts, hiding his face behind his hand.

“What?” Harry and Ron ask unison.

“It was clearly a lie,” Draco says, his eyebrows riding all the way up to his forehead.

“—classic evasion technique,” Hermione says at the same time.

“What?!” Harry asks, this time alone and silently grateful for avoiding a _Dumb and Dumber_ moment with Ron.

“Wait, wait,” Hermione clears her throat and smiles impishly. “Oh, Harry, you’re just _so_ adorable with little Freddie!” she exclaims in an impression of Maggie so accurate, Harry’s eyes nearly pop out. Next to him, Ron lets out a quiet gasp.

“Let me try,” Draco chuckles and turns to her. “Hermione! I am positively _gagging_ to hear about _Every. Single. Page._ In your wedding planner!” Hermione bursts out laughing and throws a pillow at him.

“What the—” Harry mutters, feeling stunned.

“When you think you’ve seen it all…” Ron whispers.

“Weasley— just,” Draco clenches his hand into a fist. “Hold on to this woman? Hold on to her tight.”

Ron’s already opening his mouth around a retort so Harry quickly changes the topic. “How was the cake tasting?” He turns to Hermione with a smile, still somewhat offended to learn his impression of Maggie was apparently pretty much mutual.

Well, at least he doesn’t sound like the Hogwarts Express, he thinks, knowing it’s mean and uncalled for.

Blast it, he can be mean once in a blue moon, too.

“How do you think?” Hermione asks miserably, leaning on her fiancé’s shoulder. “Ron likes all of them, I like none of them.”

“It’s cake! What’s not to like?” Ron shouts incredulously, always first to stand by any and all food. “And look, they gave me samples!” He points to a large pile of boxes on the kitchen counter.

“When the sponge was good, the buttercream was awful, when the cream was delicious, the decorations were horrid, when the flavour was nice, the sponge was as dry as paper—” She stops and exhales sharply. “You get the point.”

“Oh, come here, love,” Ron pulls her into his arms and kisses the top of her head. “We’ll find the perfect cake, I promise.”

Harry watches his best friends and their casual, spontaneous intimacy and his heart expands in his chest. He’s so happy for them he could cry, and he will bake the bloody cake himself if he has to (although that would almost certainly go horribly wrong, Harry’s pants at baking). There’s also a tiny sliver of envy in his heart, has been there for years, like a splinter that’s too deep to pluck out, small enough not to think about too much—still, it burns from time to time, mostly with shame and a bitter kind of regret that tends to creep in despite him never having the chance to change anything in the first place.

Draco’s voice rings in the room. “I… might have a solution for your cake disaster, actually.”

“If this is a preamble to a joke, I swear to Merlin—”

“Calm down Weasley, no need to flex so hard,” Draco says with a smirk. “I was going to suggest a friend of my mother’s, he’s French and a _patissier extraordinaire_ ,” Draco drawls, his perfect French accent flowing off his tongue into a beautiful lilt.

Hermione squints. “Continue.”

“He’s not cheap, but I think he might be what you’re looking for. His pavlova is to die for,” he adds with a dreamy note to his voice and Harry bites down a smile at the git’s unconditional love for everything sweet.

“Money isn’t the issue, I just want a good cake,” Hermione says with fierce determination and Harry hopes the pastry chef is as good as Draco claims, for the man’s own safety.

Draco shrugs resolutely. “I’ll owl you his details and ask Mother to put a good word so he bumps you up the queue.”

Hermione’s face softens. “Thank you, Draco.”

Draco just smiles shyly and Harry finds himself emotional again, his heart skipping a beat. He refuses to call these little bouts of affection ‘mother hen instincts’ as Ginny does, and he is most definitely not an ‘old sop’ as Draco always points out—it’s just reassuring, the knowledge of having such a tight-knit family and the feeling of security that comes with it. They all take care of each other, whether it’s pulling some strings with French bakers, setting each other up on ridiculous dates, or Side-Alonging each other after late-night pub adventures.

“But let’s go back to Maggie for a moment, though,” Ron says.

Harry groans and slides down his armchair a little. “Do we have to?”

“How did you manage to mess it up?”

Harry just scoffs, not really keen on telling Ron and Hermione about the voice thing. If George and Angelina are happy with their babysitter, Harry’s not going to have a hand in her losing her job. Not that they would fire her, but better safe than sorry.

“No, really, Harry, literally everybody loves a strong man taking care of a child,” Hermione says seriously, and Harry’s memory supplies him with freeze frames from Muggle movies with that specific trope, groaning internally at Hermione always being right. “Even if they don’t want kids themselves.”

“That’s weird,” Ron says.

“It’s just sexy,” she shrugs, blushing a little.

Next to him, Draco stares pensively at the bookshelf above Hermione’s head, deep in thought. Something must be on his mind, seeing as Draco never misses an opportunity to debate any slightly stereotypical statement, always revelling in proving everyone wrong by purposefully not adhering to any rules that apply to any group of people in the world.

“Anyway, we tried,” Ron sighs, wrapping his arm around Hermione.

“I suppose,” she says, still displeased with her master plan not working—it happens very rarely and is always met with a briefing that, more often than not, includes graphs and flipcharts to figure out what exactly went wrong. Harry hysterically thinks about the visuals Hermione would prepare for a presentation about his sex life and imagines a cartoon-y chart with a thick, red line spiking down and Hermione with an angry expression, holding a pointer and hitting the chart with it. He tries very hard not to laugh.

“Oh cheer up love, you must admit the babysitter idea was a pretty porny one to begin with,” Ron chuckles, massaging her shoulder, and Hermione scoffs at him.

Harry chokes on his own saliva, causing Draco to burst out laughing and hit him on the back a few times, to Ron and Hermione’s obvious amusement.

Forget what he said, all his friends are evil.

  


* * *

  


The four of them chat a little more and then, it’s time for Harry and Draco to go back to their respective dwellings. They leave together to Disapparate outside the flat after having said a somewhat stilted goodbye and Draco seems to be in a hurry to get home. Harry shouldn’t feel hurt about it—after all, Draco did come to rescue him from a miserable end to a miserable day without batting an eyelash and even seemed to enjoy himself until—

Until that one moment.

Harry finds himself conflicted as he lies down in bed that night, staring a hole into the ceiling. He wants to think about what happened until it’s deconstructed to bare atoms, until he has all the fleeting touches and furtive glances labelled and categorised, spread out before him so he can make some sense of it, read it like a textbook and uncover their true meaning. On the other hand, it feels like something sacred, something so fragile it would burst into a thousand pieces at the slightest prod and he doesn’t know whether finding something underneath would be more terrifying than finding nothing at all.

There are his own feelings to consider as well, and they seem so scrambled and all over the place it only results in his head hurting and his heart racing. Harry feels there’s something to do, something to say and there’s a cowardly part of him that wants to run for the hills any time his heart skips a beat or he can’t breathe with the weight of the questions he’s too afraid to ask.

Fitful sleep finally takes him and Harry dreams about Howlers and pale eyelashes.


	4. Chapter 4

The only thing Harry can bring himself to do when he reads Neville’s owl is to gently lay his forehead on his desk and groan for a good eight seconds.

There’s a blurry silhouette behind the frosted glass door to his office and as soon as Harry hears the knob turn without a knock, he knows the only person it could be is Claire, his assistant. Normally, Harry would address the issue that when one wishes to enter the DMLE vice-head’s office, one would be wise to knock first. It works most of the time, but not all the people he knows are familiar with the basic rules of etiquette.

It’s not that Harry has a stick up his arse (not a single one has ever ventured there, though a specific kind would be welcome if the occasion arises)—he has, however, learned very quickly that if one sits in their office all day, bored out of their mind over case paperwork, witness statements, and crime scene reports, one finds the strangest ways to combat said boredom. Most of those ways are not productive, the majority of them are far from wise, and a few are straight-up unethical for an Auror to even entertain. In Harry’s defence, he’s twenty-five, he’s a Gryffindor through and through, and, come to think of it, he _is_ his father’s son. The ideas to pass the time started to come very soon after he discovered that his new position consisted mostly of tedious meetings with sad, old wizards, overlooking the paperwork (whatever _that_ meant), and filling in for Robards whenever he was absent. All in all, it didn’t seem like something people would absolutely have to barge into his office for, let alone stay there for longer than a few minutes. In reality, the queue seemed neverending at times: signing warrants, receiving reports, scheduling trainee debriefs, the list went on. The first time it happened, Harry was caught playing mini-Quidditch on his desk, using crumpled paper he’d Charmed to act as balls and bent paper clips as poles; Ron let himself in and stopped in his tracks only for a second before casting a Colloportus on the door and joining Harry in the semi-finals. 

There was another time when the Cooling Charms in the whole Ministry malfunctioned in the middle of summer, right on the day Harry needed to catch up on the piles of paperwork he let sit on his desk for far too long. Ginny found him wearing nothing but a pair of crimson boxers with fluttering golden snitches, sitting on his desk, sweaty and miserable. She laughed so hard Harry considered Obliviating her for a second, right after she jokingly stated she was now a hundred per cent sure she was gay. 

The final straw, however, were the events from a year ago, back when the whole DMLE was on high alert, working full force on dismantling a huge smuggling operation consisting of a complex network of suppliers in both magical and Muggle London’s underbelly. Harry was running on fumes, fueled by stress, instant ramen and four hours of sleep a day. When he finally had a moment alone to breathe between all the raids and visits to St Mungo’s, Harry had to resort to the only relaxation method he knew that was quick, effective, and feasible in the privacy of his own bloody office. The price to pay for the short-lived endorphin high he so desperately needed could have been painfully, embarrassingly high—he was sitting behind his desk with both hands in his pants when he heard a knock on the door. 

Harry felt his soul leave his body; he scrambled to tuck himself back in, not having to worry about any technicalities, with his erection having wilted in a fraction of a second. He had never zipped up his trousers so fast in his life and doing _that_ wrong would only have added insult to injury (or maybe the other way around). To this day, Harry hopes to dear Merlin it hadn’t taken him too long to say ‘ _come in_ ’ and that his face showed as little distress as possible. At the time, Harry had hysterically thought he was now forever doomed to be turned off by knocking sounds. The person behind the door turned out to be Draco which was actually a lucky outcome considering what Ginny was capable of, how fragile Ron’s sensibilities tended to be, or how much more startling Hermione’s frantic knocking was. Ever since that dreaded day, Harry has introduced an ‘always knock’ policy to be one hundred percent sure all his bases—and his body—are covered.

Draco _always_ knocks—three times, soft and polite, a perfect manifestation of his insanely proper upbringing. Hermione always does, too—hers is usually more frenzied and louder as she never visits Level Seven on social calls, only when it’s urgent or work-related. Ron sometimes forgets, usually when there’s food to be had at Harry’s desk, and always says sorry as soon as he sees Harry’s face. Ginny, after being berated for barging in, lets out a melodramatic sigh and makes a whole scene out of leaving, slamming the door and knocking so hard the glass almost shatters, reentering with a shit-eating grin at Harry’s flat ‘ _come in_.’ Luna likes to cast a lovely little charm on the glass, making it translucent, and waves at Harry enthusiastically until he breaks into a smile and beckons her inside.

Recognising his friends before they even enter the office is a fun game Harry plays to pass the time between meetings and the occasional mission in the field, and those have been scarce since his promotion—perhaps Harry missed them a little but not as much as he _didn_ ’t miss his friends’ constant nagging about him getting his head blown off one day. He chuckles at the image of the headlines if that were to happen: _A stray curse finishing what Voldemort started! Terrifying HEADstart: read on page five! Bachelor Harry Potter struck down in his prime!_

It could still happen—his position has some obvious perks, including, but not limited to, first dibs on the hottest, most difficult cases, and Harry has always had a hard time refusing a good challenge. It’s definitely worth all those meetings and Claire’s authoritarian style of running the office because that’s when he has the chance to get into the fray, to actually help people and feel the adrenaline rush he always gets when fighting the good fight.

His assistant walks in with an unamused look, eyeing him over her brown-framed glasses—the only person who doesn’t knock and isn’t planning to start anytime soon. Claire is a strict lady in her late sixties, the self-proclaimed ‘Backbone of This Entire Bloody Department’, and the last bastion before reaching Harry’s office. The woman is a legend amongst the Aurors—most fear her, some hate her, all know her. Initially, Harry was mildly surprised to see someone her age at the workplace but has since quickly learned that not only does the woman refuse to retire, she is a far cry from a decrepit old lady one might perceive her to be. Possessing the natural, effortless air of authority of Minerva McGonagall and the resilience and stubbornness of Molly Weasley, Claire has become a true godsend in Harry’s job, striking fear in the hearts of weak men, pushy solicitors and unscheduled reporters. Harry appreciates that she never shies away from speaking her mind no matter how harsh and brutal the truth is and, what’s more, she will speak it if it’s the last thing she does. He likes to tease her about the fondness Harry’s sure she’s harbouring for him underneath her stone-cold facade, even if it usually results in threats to ‘hex him out of it like someone finally ought to do’.

He is yet to find out how each of his friends manages to get past the lady who doesn’t see rank.

“Do I want to know what is going on here?” Claire asks curtly and puts a pile of papers on his desk. “Robards wants this filed for tomorrow morning,” she adds, her lips folding into a thin line that tells Harry where she thinks Robards can put his papers.

He lifts his head, schooling his expression into something neutral. “Nothing’s going on,” Harry says. Claire just raises a brow. “Thank you for bringing the papers.”

“There was a sound like a Mountain Troll giving birth so forgive me for assuming you’re not in your right mind, Mr Potter.” She looks at him expectantly and Harry feels like he’s about to get detention. There’s also something motherly underneath her cool gaze and that causes him to back down a little.

“I—” He gulps. “I’ll be leaving the office for lunch today,” Harry says. “Let me know if someone comes by?”

“Of course,” Claire says. “Is it the pointy blond again?” She asks, not waiting for an answer. “Maybe that one will get you in order, I swear to Circe, such a stubborn young man. But I suppose he has _some_ semblance of manners and a steady job so he wouldn’t be too bad for you—”

“It’s not Draco! Okay?” Harry raises his hands, stopping that particular train of thought, face already burning. Harry wonders when or how his assistant started giving him dating pep talks and thinking it’s for Draco, of all people—

“I see,” she purses her lips, looking like she has something more to say and is doing Harry an indescribable kindness by remaining silent. “Apparently, my eyes sometimes _do_ deceive me. Will that be all, mr Potter?”

“Um, yes. Thank you, Claire,” Harry says, feeling his flush spread to his neck as she casts him one last judgemental look and promptly leaves the office shaking her head, hopefully more at the world in general than at Harry personally.

Harry pushes the papers to the side of his desk and takes another look at the note from Neville.

  


_Amy said she’ll be happy to meet you for lunch at her studio in Westminster, her treat. Don’t be late, don’t be nervous. She’s cool._

_Love,_  
_Neville_

  


_Don’t be nervous_? Harry wants to laugh at Neville’s little suggestion there—after the last two dates, Harry wouldn’t be surprised if his friends set him up with a Goblin, just to see what would happen, and if that’s not a reason to be nervous, Harry truly doesn’t know what is. He remembers Neville mentioning he wanted in on the bet but only because he has a new coworker and thinks she and Harry would hit it off. While it’s really sweet of Neville to be so concerned about Harry’s relationship status, it’s hard for Harry not to expect the worst, knowing his track record so far.

He briefly considers just not going and putting a stop to all the nonsense that has been getting increasingly out of hand—not only all the blind dates in pursuit of a plus one for the wedding, but also the ultimate goal at the end of the road which, as ridiculous and soppy as it sounds, is finding someone to actually fall in love with. The idea itself is silly and maybe a little bit naive but if there’s one place where Harry can be silly and naive, it’s in his own head. The anticipation of that _one moment_ , the blinding, incapacitating realisation that the person before him might be _the one_ is annoyingly cliché yet Harry finds himself wondering if it can ever happen for him. Maybe he’s just not predestined to make anything out of his life after all the Voldemort chaos, maybe his life was written out in the tapestry of fate just up until that moment and whoever did it decided it was enough, didn’t believe he’d make it out alive anyway, or maybe they just stepped out for a loo break and got hit by a car on the way, never to finish weaving Harry’s thread. It sounds a little grim but is somehow more reassuring than just attributing it to Harry himself being fundamentally broken, it’s somewhat of a consolation to be able to blame it on some supernatural cruelty of the universe forgetting about a single speckle of stardust in the grand scheme of things.

Harry sighs, crumpling up the letter, and checks the clock over the door. He still has fifteen minutes to spare so he sends a quick note to Draco using an internal Ministry memo—they usually decide on lunch using those and Harry always folds his into a paper crane rather than an airplane. It’s a small nod to Draco, a little memento of their past and Harry finds it more amusing than he should, especially with the snarky messages they tend to exchange during work. Neither of them has ever mentioned it but Draco visits Harry’s office often enough to have seen him send hundreds of those and not one paper crane and knowing Draco, Harry’s sure he noticed.

For some unfathomable reason, Harry likes having that secret small _thing_ with him, and likes that Draco realises it, too.

  


_I can’t do lunch today, I have a thing, sorry. I’ll tell you later. Don’t go to that new sandwich place without me._

_H._

_P.S. I’ll drop by the lab after if you’re not too busy._

  


He watches the little purple crane flutter over his head, doing a few circles and then it’s gone, flying to the other side of their floor where the Forensics Department resides. Harry can almost hear Draco’s exasperated scoff among the stifling vapours of his potions—he likes to pretend to be extraordinarily busy every time Harry comes over and makes a big fuss out of ridding himself of all his protective gear while Harry smiles at his theatrics. Draco thinks he looks like a mysterious genius emerging from a cloud of fumes in all his mad glory, looking like he has just devised a plan to take over the world. But he actually looks like a goofy mad scientist with tousled hair, goggle imprints around his eyes and a flush across his cheeks, and no amount of tight-fitting, black robes, no matter how good and intimidating they look, will wipe the smirk off Harry’s face at the sight of it.

The response comes flying two minutes later ad Harry opens it, grinning at Draco’s neat, pointy script:

  


_To: The most esteemed vice-Head Auror Harry Potter, a.k.a. The Git Who Lived,_

_How very disappointing, I was looking forward to watching you chew with your mouth open and spill coffee on your lovely uniform._  
_Alas, I shall shiver in anticipation for sliced bread yet another day. The things I do for ~~l~~ scatter-brained layabouts who outrank me._  
_I am impatiently awaiting to see that birdnest you call hair poking through my door—it’s not like us peasants have jobs to do._

_Yours truly,_  
_D._

_P.S. The toll you must pay to enter will be one of those chocolate brioches I like. You may pick one up on your way back._

  


Harry lets out a low laugh. Draco sure likes to pretend to be busy but somehow always finds time to write flowery, snarky paragraphs instead of writing ‘yes’ or ‘no’ like a normal person. And if Harry keeps a few of his favourites at the bottom of his desk drawer, no-one has to know. He makes a mental note to get that brioche, knowing that Draco gets snappy without any sugar in his system. 

How he stays so fit is beyond Harry—Draco always looks impeccable in his bespoke tailoring, fitted shirts and matching waistcoats, no matter the ungodly amounts of sweets he’s capable of shovelling into his mouth. Harry’s best guess is some weird pure-blood genetic thing, manifesting due to Draco’s ancestors having to sit on their arses all day, having tea and tiny, fancy cakes and still having to look good for all the arranged marriages they had cooking up behind the scenes. All of it was history and yet still managed to leave Draco with an enviable metabolism and immaculate hair while regular humans had to resort to exercise and coming to terms with never experiencing what an actual haircut feels like.

That reminds Harry he should probably check out if his _birdnest_ hair looks acceptable and leave soon if he wants to make it on time for his impromptu date with Neville’s mysterious coworker.

  


* * *

  


Harry finds the florist studio easily enough after taking a short walk from the Ministry building. It’s visible even from a distance, a thick, green mane growing out of an otherwise grey side of a building—it looks even more beautiful as he approaches and a strong, heady smell of different types of flowers assaults him with increasing intensity. There are boxes and pots with a variety of plants lined up outside, each adorned with a small, black sign with the name of the species written in white chalk. Ivies and ferns hang under the awning and over the entrance, creating a lush, green curtain nearly covering the windows, letting only partial sunlight inside. Careful not to knock over any of the smaller succulent pots lined neatly on several tiny hanging shelves, Harry steps inside.

The smell of flowers is even stronger inside and Harry can’t stop himself from sneezing into his elbow, luckily managing to stifle the sound. The studio extends deeper and Harry realises it also includes a courtyard in the middle of the building. It’s adapted to act as an orangery with a dome-like glass roof that allows more sunlight inside—it spills into the space through the dusty glass slates and bathes all the vegetation in a mysterious, greenish glow. The air is cool and moist, possibly to best preserve all the cut flowers and Harry can hear the murmur of flowing water echoing around the studio.

“Hello?” Harry calls. Weirdly, he’s expecting his voice to echo around all this space but it sounds rather muffled, drowning in all the foliage and the stuffy, damp air.

He hears some light footsteps and Neville’s friend (Amy, he reminds himself) emerges from between the greenery with a happy spring to her step. Immediately, it strikes Harry how kind and down-to-earth she seems; she’s wearing a pair of wellingtons but that’s about it in the gardening getup department. The rest is just a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. If anything, Amy looks more like a student than a Magical Botanist. Her blond hair is tied in a ponytail that bounces cheerfully as she approaches, and there are freckles all over her face that’s currently split in a wide grin.

“Hi! Harry, I presume? I’m Amy,” she says brightly, extending out her hand. Harry is pleasantly surprised she doesn’t use his last name—people often say it with a little fascination laced into their voice as if Harry were an interesting phenomenon or a museum showpiece and not an actual person.

They exchange pleasantries and Amy invites him to her ‘back room slash office’, as she describes it, and Harry wants to slap himself in the face for the joke that comes to his mind at that. It’s all Ron’s fault, his, and the nerves’.

The office is actually a tiny potions lab, one that Draco would surely deem ‘inefficient’ and ‘unsanitary’. There are samples of different plant tissues in Petri dishes, shelves full of labelled reactants, microscope slides scattered haphazardly around the worktable and, on a large table against a wall, a long line of bulky pots with different colour variants of the same flower, going from pale ivory, through a number of shades of pink transitioning into violets and finally, a royal blue one on the very right.

Harry can’t remember the name of the flower and his eyes keep going back to the tasteful display. It seems… familiar but he can’t remember where he’s seen them. As they enter, Amy tells him about her job—she’s a botanist and in the lab, she researches the magical properties of certain plants for Potions use. Harry absently thinks Draco would be immediately interested; Amy seems to love what she does and Harry listens curiously until the smell of the flowers hits him with full force. There’s an unsettling weight in his stomach as the cloying aroma penetrates the air and even the steaming takeout containers with their lunch can’t overpower the sweet, flowery stench.

They eat curry, and talk, and it’s all perfectly pleasant—Harry tells her a little about his job as well (and what a glorious topic for a first date, honestly, the modern world is a travesty) but remains unable to shake that stifling feeling in his chest, almost making him sweat. And that strange, unsafe smell gets stronger.

Finally, Harry can’t take it anymore. “Amy? What’s this smell? Is it the flowers?”

“Oh, yeah, it’s pretty potent isn’t it?” She smiles sheepishly and points at the row of those disconcertingly familiar flowers. “Hyacinths. They smell beautiful, don’t they?”

“Ah,” Harry says.

Hyacinths.

As in, the flowers aunt Petunia had in her garden. The garden Harry was forced to work in on long, summer days from the age of eight to ten, until Dudley rode his brand new mountain bike into said garden and ploughed down all of Petunia’s bloody flowers, turning them into a violet-green mulch. The garden that Harry was still punished for destroying.

Suddenly, he’s not hungry anymore. The smell cuts through the air and Harry feels like he’s drowning, like he’s back at Privet Drive and the last fourteen years never happened, and it should be ridiculous, to have such bad memories associated with a smell, not to mention one that’s supposed to be pleasant. Harry can feel his stomach churn and no matter how hard he tries, no matter how insignificant it ought to be, any time he casts a quick look at the lined-up pots, all he can see is Petunia Dursley’s kitchen and that horrid flower garden.

He forces down another forkful of food. “And… what do you do with them?” He asks weakly.

If Amy notices the shift in his behaviour, she doesn’t let it show on her face, shooting him an easy smile. “I’ve been researching the magical properties of hyacinth pollen for the last four years. It’s fascinating, I think I might be close to discovering a healing suspension, if only I was able to figure out how to distil the external phase without it being toxic which, kind of defeats the purpose,” she explains, letting out a small laugh. Harry tries to mirror it but it sounds like he’s sick.

“Are you, um— Close to figuring it out?” He asks, sincerely hoping Amy just has a few more experiments to do and the effects of four years’ worth of work will present themselves, enabling her to get rid of the horrid-smelling blossoms. Harry knows he would.

“Not by a long shot,” she sighs, and Harry takes a grave gulp of his coffee. Of course. “And, from the looks of it, I’ll be at it for a while. But here’s something exciting: while I was working on the healing properties, I found out there might be more to those plants than just the pretty flowers!” She adds in a conspiratorial tone and Harry’s blood runs cold, he’s sure his face is ashen. “I’m making it my next project, people in the business already call me _that hyacinth lady_ , anyway,” Amy laughs.

So the flowers are here to stay. Indefinitely.

Harry isn’t one to shun any scientific research or oppose progress in any way, but he can’t stop himself from despondently thinking it could have been any other plant and he would actually consider asking Amy out for another date. It’s difficult for a number of reasons—there’s no-one to blame for the situation, maybe except aunt Petunia and her reprehensible upbringing methods. Neville had no idea, Amy _has_ no idea, hyacinths… are plants, for fuck’s sake. Harry zones out of the conversation a bit, wondering if he would ever be able to get over it if he and Amy were to keep seeing each other. He looked at the girl and asked himself, does she really deserve to be seeing someone that doesn’t share her passion? Someone that can’t enter her studio without feeling sick to their stomach, someone who’ll keep waiting for her to move on from her life’s work? Harry doesn’t want to be that person, he can’t expect Amy, or anyone for that matter, to turn her life around so drastically. And it’s not like he’s that passionate about plants anyway, that’s Neville’s field of expertise.

Amy’s watching him now, probably having figured out he’s a little out of it, so Harry quickly recovers and tries to pay more attention, ignoring the nauseating feeling he can’t seem to shake off for the rest of their lunch. Soon, his break is over and while Harry could stay a bit longer with no repercussions whatsoever (except for Claire staring daggers at him, but that’s a given), he finds himself wishing to be back in his office already. His flower-less, simple office where he can breathe, and have Draco over to eat his biscuits, and relax enough to stop thinking about his miserable life and being destined to die alone in Grimmauld Place, with Kreacher sobbing insincerely by his bedside.

They say their goodbyes, and Harry thanks her for the lunch and for inviting him over, and Amy says he can owl her if he’d ever want to do this again. Harry feels extremely bad as he flashes her a weak smile and makes up some work-related excuse to justify his rush in getting out of there, thinking he’s _that_ arsehole people warn their friends about. He emerges from the green thicket of leaves and the smell seems to follow him for a few steps before dissipating and giving way to all the scents mingling in the busy street—the heavy odour of burned oil from the chippy across the street, the stench of fumes from the passing cars and buses, and a delicate aroma of coffee coming from a little french bakery on the corner. That reminds him—Harry goes inside and buys two chocolate brioches from the cheerful cashier.

Two minutes later, Harry’s on his way back to the Ministry, carrying two pastries in a paper bag and a tugging feeling in his chest.

  


* * *

  


He leaves his jacket in his office and treads down the hall to the Forensics Lab, clutching the bag with the brioches—an offering to appease the Dragon that dwells within. He knocks on the door twice, having learned his lesson to never just waltz into their workspace, let alone Draco’s private office. Harry wagers Draco keeps his subordinates ( _underlings_ , as per the man himself) on a short leash—the young men and women always seem fidgety, jumping at the tiniest sound that’s out of place, and a little pale, although that one could be attributed to the sheer amount of chemical vapour in the room and Harry chooses to believe that. It’s not like Draco’s undisputed reign of the Forensics wing could make Ministry interns shiver in terror, could it?

There was a time when Harry forgot to knock and simply let himself inside, planning to slip unnoticed by the interns and see what Draco was up to. His impromptu visit ended with a dozen broken beakers and a concentrated Bundimun acid leak that ate through the floor, leaving a sizzling hole and puffs of green smoke in its wake. The floor below them had to be briefly evacuated until the Maintenance Team took care of the mess and repaired the floor, to Harry’s utter embarrassment, Draco’s scathing fury, and the interns’ absolute mortification. Draco had to be convinced not to fire anyone with a basket of sweets Harry left under the door the next day. Draco was too upset to tell Harry how exactly they store the acid so it doesn’t eat through the containers, only letting out a few indistinct grumbles that sounded like _bloody wizard_ and _amateurs_.

The door opens an inch and a cloud of purple smoke seeps out through the crack in a flurry of glittering swirls that slowly curl down, spilling over the floor like a nebulous magical carpet. Through the thin fog, Harry can make out a sweaty brow and a brown eye glancing at him with suspicion until it lightens up with recognition. The door opens wide and Harry steps through the smoke curtain accompanied by the intern’s excited babble.

“Mr Potter!” He stammers. “I’m sorry for the precautions, we’re—”

“Three,” a familiar voice sounds next to them, calm and clear, and a second later Draco emerges from the purple fog, holding a golden pocket watch at his face level. “Two,” he says, looking at the intern while all colour drains from the poor lad’s face. “And one. The Swooping Evil Venom solution you were preparing is now as good as garbage, Mr Swan,” Draco says icily, his voice perfectly clear in the otherwise silent room. The intern, Swan, looks like he’s about to faint.

“There— Uh, Mr Malfoy, there, there was a knock on the door and it’s Mr Potter to see you—” He chokes out and Harry could swear he’s about to cry.

“Do I look like I’m deaf, Mr Swan?” Draco asks and the boy shakes his head vigorously. “Good, I should hope so. I assure you, I am quite capable of opening a door myself, especially seeing that I am not the one who was assigned a task. A task that you failed, Mr Swan.”

The intern stares a hole into the floor and Harry almost feels sorry for the guy, except that watching Draco in his element, being all authoritative and competent sparks something akin to excitement in Harry and he never passes up an opportunity to watch the show.

The thing is, it’s all an act—Draco knows it, Harry knows it, it’s just the interns who have no idea. Draco’s hard on them but Harry knows it’s because he only chooses the best, most capable applicants to work by his side. There’s a relatively fast rotation and it’s not because Draco revels in firing his people—he watches them, he knows their names and backgrounds, and when he feels their time is up, he usually sends a strong-worded letter to another department or some research institute about a bright young intern he’s got down in the DMLE Forensics team. When Harry found one of those letters once, Draco explained he felt their talents were going to waste working ‘ _for the bloody government’_ —and when asked why _his_ talents were still at the Ministry’s service, he scoffed, saying that Harry would be helpless without him and that someone needs to be captain on this bloody sinking ship, sailing the dark and unfriendly seas of bureaucracy. In reality, Harry thinks Draco simply likes his job and the guidance he can give in his position makes him feel like he can help young people with their careers. He doesn’t need to tell Draco that, though.

Draco puts the watch away, tucking it back into the pocket of the tight waistcoat visible under his unbuttoned work robes. The golden chain glimmers in the light and for a second, Harry’s transfixed at the whole getup—the long, black robes adorned with a row of tiny onyx buttons should make Draco look like Snape, cold, dark, and… greasy. But they don’t, not even a little—he looks sleek, sharp, almost…

Harry shakes off the thought—he shouldn’t find Draco _sexy_ or _hot._ Not that he isn’t. Like, attractive, in general. But they’re friends. Close friends, who like to cuddle on the couch sometimes (it’s not a whole thing, it’s fine) and do things together, and that’s perfectly normal. So it’s not like Harry _likes_ likes him, they’re just… close. Besides, it’s not like Draco would ever think of him like that anyway. So there’s no point in even entertaining those strange thoughts, and definitely no point in thinking back to that night at Ron and Hermione’s either.

Draco’s sharp voice makes him start. “You will clean up the station and dispose of the ruined batch. Then, you can go home, Mr Swan, I feel I will have no use for you today.”

The intern’s head snaps up, horror dawning on his face. “Should I— come back, Mr Malfoy?”

Draco raises an amused brow. “I don’t know, should you? Or should I prepare that solution myself tomorrow? Or should you come back in a week? Take a holiday? I’m sure that our trauma victim can wait for their potion, it’s not—”

“Of course, Mr Malfoy, I’m on it!” The boy chokes out and nearly runs to the station to clean up the mess.

“And you,” Draco turns to Harry like a hawk, making him freeze. He looks like he can read people’s minds and that’s the absolute last thing Harry needs right now, considering he’s just been thinking Draco is hot and not interested in him in that way. “Do you have my brioche? I wasn’t joking, you know.”

Harry just stares, not willing to risk his voice coming out weird, and lifts the paper bag so that Draco can see the bakery’s logo.

Draco smiles, the first real smile since Harry walked in. “Very well. Office?”

Harry nods and follows, shooting a sympathetic smile to Swan on the way, as the boy scrubs some beakers in the sink—Draco doesn’t let them Scourgify the equipment, claiming it’s not as thorough as hand-cleaning which also _builds character_ , as he likes to say.

They step into Draco’s small office—still bigger than Harry’s, which Draco likes to remind him about any time the occasion arises—and take their usual spots: Draco in an over-the-top leather chair behind his desk and Harry in a victorian armchair facing the desk. He plops the paper bag on the desk and Draco immediately snatches it and takes a whiff of the fragrant chocolate pastries. “Ah, yes,” he hums, “you’ve done well, Potter, very well.”

“Still a tyrant, I see,” Harry says, settling comfortably in the chair. It immediately strikes him how nice Draco’s office always smells, like old wood with a barely-there, clean, chemical note and also like Draco himself, the lemony-spicy-sage smell permeating the air, as subtle as its owner.

“And you? Still bringing Robards his coffee because he’s afraid to walk into a Starbucks?” Draco asks amusedly, opening the bag. “There are two,” he frowns. “Do you want one?” He asks, holding it out to Harry.

“No thanks, I’m kind of full,” he says. “Consider it a bonus, for what a sweetheart you are,” Harry adds without thinking and sees a faint, pink tinge bloom on Draco’s face. He’s pretty sure his own doesn’t look any better. He rushes to change the topic. “And, for your information, _no_ , the trainees do that for him now.”

“Then congratulations are in order, I knew you could manage it without any bloodshed,” Draco inclines his head and proceeds to bite into his brioche with a satisfied groan ( _not_ a moan, Harry tells himself, what is wrong with him today?!).

The office feels too hot and Harry loosens the collar of his uniform. “Well, I could have just sicced Claire on him,” he says, letting out a small laugh.

“Vice-head Potter, how ghastly!” Draco exclaims in mock-scandal. “How far can this Auror-on-Auror cruelty go?”

Harry laughs. “I was joking, you git! He’s not that bad, boss-wise,” Harry shrugs. “It could always be worse—I could have you as my boss,” he adds wryly and Draco throws a crumpled paper ball at his head.

“You should be so lucky,” Draco quips. “Salazar, those are _amazing_ ,” he looks at the pastry in his hand, shaking his head. Harry grins at that—he has always found Draco’s love for sweets surprising yet strangely in character once they became friends. “And they smell like heaven, too. If they ever close down, I’m going on strike.”

They sit in easy silence as Draco munches happily on his pastries, finishing the first and immediately digging into the second one. Harry wonders how many he could have before he’s had enough. He agrees with Draco’s sentiment, though—they do smell fantastic.

“Do you have a smell you hate?” Harry asks abruptly, thinking back to the disastrous date. Well, not exactly disastrous—still, somewhere oh his way back, Harry decided he’s not going to pursue anything with Amy.

Draco glances at him with an arched brow and turns back to his food. “Public loos, cheap wine, Diagon Alley,” he says without missing a beat.

“You’re such a delight, aren’t you,” Harry deadpans, tilting his head.

“I know, I’m told all the time.”

“No, I mean,” he lets out a pained sigh, now wishing he didn’t start that conversation at all. “Like, imagine the opposite of what your Amortentia smells like,” Harry gestures vaguely, trying very hard to stifle any thoughts around the subject of what Draco’s Amortentia may or may not smell like. It’s none of his business, he thinks, helpless against the spark of curiosity it ignites.

Draco pauses, frozen in place. He puts the half-finished pastry down and stares at Harry, questioning.

“Imagine—” The strange feeling doesn’t go away so Harry just powers through it, resolving to analyse it later (never). “Imagine the most… beautiful smell, one that brings Patronus-worthy memories?” It feels silly to describe it as such but he shoots a quick glance at Draco and Draco isn’t laughing—he’s staring at Harry with inexplicable somberness and for a split second, his face looks like his mind has gone somewhere else, before he refocuses on Harry.

“Imagine something that smells like home,” Harry says quietly.

“I don’t have to,” Draco says softly, so quiet Harry almost misses it.

He gulps. “What?”

Draco doesn’t say anything but he turns around and points to a shelf in the far corner of the room, where a neat row of labelled vials was placed, presumably by Draco himself. Harry recognizes the labels—it’s the kind the DMLE uses to file evidence.

“Is that…” He trails off, watching the hot-pink liquid’s slow swirl against the glass.

“Yes,” Draco says lowly. “Remember that illegal potions case in April? The one with the pharmacy, Risewell's, I believe it was called?” At Harry’s nod, he continues. “We’ve finally got the samples for testing—extremely potent Amortentia, that one. I decided to take the interns off that particular case, it was… distressing.”

“What happened?” Harry asks.

“People who brewed it somehow managed to increase the, ah… sensation, when it was interacted with. Apart from the smell the potion usually carries, as you very well know, this one also provides… visuals, so to speak.”

“You mean, like, hallucinations?” Harry’s heart is hammering in his chest, immediately wondering what it would smell like to him, what that smell would make him see. He feels almost sick, with fear, with the knowledge that if he just opened one of those vials, he would know. He would maybe have an idea, a turning point which he could go from, pointed in the right direction. His stomach sinks at the persistent thought that he could also feel nothing, see nothing, he could get physical evidence of something Harry’s been scared of his entire life.

“I suppose you could call it that,” Draco muses, still strangely quiet. “Visions, not real ones, obviously, just— manifestations of sorts, a reflection of what could be. My research indicates that there’s an association with the smell, too.”

Harry wants to ask. His heart skips a beat at the thought—another too-personal question that should remain unasked, an intimate secret he has no right to learn. There’s something sad and yearning in Draco’s face and Harry feels like he’s been punched in the chest.

“What— What does yours smell like?” Draco asks and Harry almost thinks he imagined it.

His mouth goes dry. “I… I don’t— It can change, right?” Harry remembers the last time he smelled any at all—it was back at Hogwarts, in Slughorn’s Potions class. Back then, he could still smell Ginny but that ship had sailed a long time ago and even though there’s something melancholic about it, a fond warmth comes along with the thought and it settles Harry’s nerves a little, knowing that the right thing happened.

“Yes. It’s… very common for Amortentia to change its scent, perceived by an individual, over time,” Draco says, watching him with a strange intensity that sends a shiver down his spine. Unrestrained curiosity keeps tugging on his gut and Harry looks at the shelf again.

“Don’t even think about it,” Draco says with a warning, his eyes going dark.

Panic creeps its way into Harry’s stomach at being found out, so easy to read he might as well wear it on his forehead. “I wasn’t going to—” He shuts his mouth, thinking of something to say. “You know I can access any evidence filed by the DMLE? Forensics isn’t a separate entity in that capacity,” Harry says defensively.

Draco doesn’t meet his eyes, looking at vials with a bitter expression. “I know. As the vice-head Auror, you could legally come up to that shelf, pick up a flask and take a whiff. Any time you wanted.” He turns back to Harry, biting his lip. “And I, as the head of Forensics, cannot stop you without risking professional and legal repercussions.”

Harry sits still and watches Draco for a reaction, an indication. To what, he’s not sure, but he feels there’s something unspoken hanging in the air, something they both should maybe say or do but instead, they discuss departmental hierarchy like it was the weather and stare at each other with nearly unbearable intensity.

Draco’s eyes are still on him as he speaks again. “But you won’t. If you really wanted to, you would have done it as soon as I pointed there and told you what it is. And you won’t because as your… friend, I won’t let you.”

“Is that so?” Harry asks, forever incapable of not challenging Draco every step of the way.

Draco smirks, already in on it. “Want to try me?”

Harry lets out a nervous laugh. His palms feel sweaty. “Okay, but why, though?”

Draco brings his hands up to rub his temples, elbows propped up on his desk. “Potter, I know what you’re thinking,” he sighs. “Correct me if I’m wrong—you will smell the bloody potion and embark on a lunatic mission to find your One and Only and live happily ever after,” he recites, peeking up a Harry. “Amortentia isn’t… an oracle, it’s just a reflection, the results vary from person to person, and _you_? You will take it to heart and you won’t rest because you’re so bloody _stubborn_ , you’re giving me a headache. It won’t make it better Potter, knowing what your Amortentia smells like, and I’m speaking from experience,” he finishes, dropping his hands. Harry tries to unscramble his thoughts, knowing deep down Draco has a point and it’s actually annoying, how well he sees right through him and why he doesn’t want to let Harry smell it.

Something dark stirs in his gut, too, knowing Draco smelled it and didn’t like it for some reason.

“Well, it’s definitely not hyacinths,” Harry grumbles.

Draco’s brows knit into a deep frown. “Why… would it be?”

Harry groans and shifts in his armchair. “That lunch thing I had? Neville set me up on a date.”

“Longbottom’s in on the bet?” Draco whistles. “I take it didn’t go well?”

Harry starts talking. He tells Draco about the lunch and about Amy, and he doesn’t skip the lab bit, knowing Draco would like to hear about it. The story gets a little stilted when he gets to the hyacinths part.

They never talk about their childhoods much, is the thing. It did happen a few times—two or three drunken nights on the couch or out on the terrace—things like this would spill out at some point, unprompted and never pushed, like a seeping wound that healed itself over time. Neither of them asked, the other just started talking and they would listen, silent and present, a human gauze to sop up all that’s spilling out, the good, the bad, and the dirty. They never mentioned it the next day and that was okay—they both understood it was something the other needed, some things had to be said and locked in a drawer, filed away in the past so that it could be moved on from.

Harry tells Draco about the smell and Draco listens. Nods.

He doesn’t say anything and Harry’s grateful that Draco just _gets_ it.

They sit quietly for a bit and it’s wonderful how those little silences don’t have to be awkward—they’re little pockets of peace, probably more vulnerable than they have any right to be, moments when they don’t have to be anybody, not even themselves, when they can just breathe and think about nothing at all.

Harry bites his lip. “D’you—” He feels a blush creeping up onto his face. “Do you think I’m nitpicking?”

“No, Harry,” Draco says with a soft smile. “I just think you’re human.”

  


* * *

  


Later that day, the gang ends up at Harry’s house for a spontaneous get-together. Harry has long given up on figuring out why its always his house, of all places, that has ended up being the ultimate social pilgrimage destination, but he never complains. It’s always a pleasant surprise to come home to Ginny and Luna making dinner in his kitchen as Kreacher looms in the shadows with an expression of a particularly ugly gargoyle, or meeting Ron and Hermione right on the stoop and going inside together to hang out and talk about their respective days. Sometimes, Draco pops in uninvited too, forever overdressed in his slim waistcoats, button-down shirts and fitting trousers. It always baffles Harry how Draco can just step in through the Floo, unceremoniously plop down on the couch and demand tea looking like that. He looks like a tabloid photograph, a celebrity after a particularly heavy red carpet party, all classy, proper and completely debauched. It drives Harry mad wondering if Draco sleeps in dress robes, or takes showers in a suit.

They’re all chatting and having some light snacks Luna and Ginny have brought, each with a bottle of beer in hand, with the exception of Draco and his usual glass of wine. Harry thinks about the days to come and Draco’s reaction to the news that he has chugged the House of Black’s wine cellar dry at some point in the future. He laughs at the image, his shoulders shaking, earning himself a disgruntled noise from Draco, who’s back is currently propped against his side, legs outstretched and hanging over the elbow rest.

“What on earth are you laughing at, you lunatic?” Draco grumbles, elbowing him for good measure while trying to prevent his drink from spilling.

Harry jerks his shoulder just to spite him, laughing at Draco’s displeased huffs. They poke and jab at each other until finally, a little wine sloshes out of Draco’s glass and onto the carpet.

“Harry, Draco!” Hermione, ever the mum of the group, rolls her eyes at their antics. “Honestly, it’s like your thirteen again,” she shakes her head with a fond smile.

Ron grimaces. “You two are always so… touchy,” he says from the bean bag chair he’s sprawled in.

Harry nearly chokes on his beer. “We’re friends!” He splutters, already feeling his face burn. “It’s normal for friends to be touchy— You know what, don’t call it touchy, you’re making it weird!”

Draco’s back is strangely taut against his shoulder as he gives Ron an unamused look. “As much as it usually pains me, I have to agree with Potter,” he smirks and the indignant sound Harry makes. “You’re making it sound like we’re some repressed machos with daddy issues.”

“What on earth were you watching on the telly this time?” Harry mutters, leaning around Draco’s shoulder to look at him incredulously. It never failed to baffle him, the way Draco has taken to muggle TV like a fish to water and, frankly, how absolutely endearing it is.

“I’ll show you later, it’s about demon hunters and I am _hooked_ ,” Draco murmurs privately, his words brushing softly right against Harry’s temple at the awkward angle. He tries not to shudder at the pleasant warmth and absently notices that Draco’s breath smells really nice, and not at all like hyacinths, not even close. It’s somehow chocolate-y and Harry darts an unhappy look at his beer and then at Draco’s wine, regretting his beverage choices. Maybe Draco would let him have a taste.

 _Of the wine_ , he berates himself, of course, he meant the wine.

“So, this show, the broody one is clearly infatuated with the oblivious one—”

“Well!” Ron pipes in, terribly displeased with his barmy theories going unacknowledged. “You’re not that touchy with Hermione! Or— or me!”

“You want me to be touchy with your fiancée,” Harry deadpans, secretly pleased with the snort Draco lets out.

“I hate you.”

Harry shoots him a wicked smile and shifts under Draco’s solid warmth. “ _Or_ maybe you want me to be touchy with _you_.” Draco snickers knowingly as he moves to lean on the backrest, balancing his glass between slender fingers.

“Mate, _NO_ ,” Ron warns, pointing a finger at him.

Harry stands up and takes a step forward, a wide, impish smile on his face. “C’mere.”

Ron straightens, as far as his reclined position allows, both hands up in a defensive gesture. “Harry. _No_.”

Hermione watches the exchange with amusement. Ginny pauses halfway through braiding Luna’s hair and both girls watch as Harry slowly zones in on Ron and his bean bag. Which sounds _very_ wrong, come to think of it, but Harry doesn’t really care.

“Come on Ronald, give me some love,” he says.

“Don’t take another step—”

“Come here, mate!” Harry exclaims and jumps on top of Ron, laughing at his friend’s shrieks and cries for help.

They wrestle for a while and roll off to the floor, Ron trying to wiggle out and crawl away, Harry trying to pin him down, accompanied by the girls’ giggles and Draco’s exasperated chuckle. Finally, after a little help from some handy wandless, wordless magic, Harry manages to come up victorious, sitting down on Ron’s back who’s lying face-down on the floor with his hair sticking out and a red, grumpy face.

“Hermione, help!” Ron chokes out, trying to throw Harry off. “He’s gone completely barmy this time!”

“Oh, Ronald, get over yourself,” Hermione says with a laugh, not even bothering to move. Harry smiles at Ginny who gives him his beer that got passed around the circle to reach him, courtesy of Draco.

“I think it’s actually very attractive,” Ginny muses, shrugging.

“What?!” Ron squeaks from his spot on the carpet.

Hermione hums knowingly. “For a man to be secure enough with his masculinity to express platonic affection through physical touch,” she explains. “It’s a very refreshing behaviour model these days—macho men are so last century, love” she shakes her head, earning herself approving nods from everybody except Ron.

Harry’s smile falters a little at that— _platonic affection_. It should be a perfectly reasonable name for what they are with Draco. Sure, the comment was aimed at Ron but Harry still can’t help turning it over in his head—it’s supposed to be normal, expected, to attribute all their touches, gestures and general closeness to being good friends. Which they _are_. Harry feels a little overwhelmed to have it laid out for him and be so, so simple. It doesn’t feel simple, it’s not, it’s more than just that, and calling all those complicated emotions between him and Draco _platonic_ feels like a profanity, it ignites a roaring fire in his belly, spurring him on to hide and protect it—not hide it from the world, to keep it safe and close to his confused heart.

Something clenches in his throat—saying so himself felt correct five minutes ago, so why does he feel like a traitor?

“See, Ron, I’m expressing my affection!” Harry cranes his neck to look at his best mate, currently picking at the carpet with spite and pointedly ignoring him.

“You’re all weirdos,” Ron grumbles.

“And you’re our little Won-Won,” Harry sniggers and ruffles his hair.

“Weasley, dearest, I would join in on the fun, seeing how touch-starved you are, it’s just I find you repulsive,” Draco says airly and takes a sip of his nice-smelling wine, biting down a smile.

“I think it’s very manly to be in touch with your emotions,” Luna pipes in with a sweet smile. The girls are sitting on the floor, Luna’s back to Ginny’s chest, with her girlfriend’s arms locked around her waist.

“Oh, they’re in touch all right,” Ron says, attempting one last wiggle to break free.

Harry takes pity on him—he pats his back a few times, clinks his bottle against Ron’s, abandoned on the table, and goes back to his seat.

“Thank you Luna,” Draco inclines his head with a serious expression. “Potter might be a lackwit at times, but he sure does make an excellent pillow.”

“Bastard,” Harry pants out as he flops back down to his spot on the couch.

“Prat,” Draco retorts and flops back against Harry. His back is warm, he smells like citrus and spice, and he’s trying to hide his grin. It’s all platonic, and good, and feels like coming home.


	5. Chapter 5

Harry’s having a dreadful day.

He got to work just fine in the morning, expecting everything to go smoothly and without any hangups—nothing bad ever happens on Fridays. Fridays are sacred—every single Ministry Worker seems to tread carefully, with a strange kind of giddiness, doing everything in their power to make things light and easy. The lifts make fewer stops, the interns don’t trip over their own legs, the solicitors seem less feral, and statistics show that even crime rates are lower on Fridays, as if the criminals of London collectively decided to give the Aurors a break once a week. Which, in consequence, makes Harry wonder about the existence of a weekly Crime Bulletin, announcing the upcoming misdeeds, introducing changes in hierarchy, maybe sharing a scone recipe or two, and finally, closing with a kind reminder to refrain from any criminal activity on Friday, unless someone’s on a deadline (read page seven for extortion etiquette). Harry chuckles at the concept, making a mental note to share the idea with Draco later.

Harry’s good mood evaporates as soon as he steps into the office—it’s like a Tripwire Curse was triggered, making everything go wrong in the craziest possible ways. He gets distracted and spills a little coffee from his paper cup straight onto Claire’s desk, earning himself a murderous glare and a straight-up refusal to remind him about an important meeting on Monday. He gets a scolding from Robards for nothing in particular which most likely means Kingsley found out about some paperwork discrepancies and requested Robards take care of them personally. Then, an overeager Auror newbie sees him in person for the first time and loses his cool so badly that the poor boy ends up tripping and dropping his salad all over Harry’s front. Harry doesn’t know what’s more annoying at this point—the guy’s profound apologies, his clear infatuation, manifesting in the form of a furious flush across his face, or the fact that despite a few heavy-duty Scourgifies, his uniform still bears the faintest smell of French dressing.

Just when he thinks this blasted day cannot get any worse—sending a quick prayer to whatever Forces That Be are listening, pointing out that this is _not_ a challenge—the door to his office slams open and Ginny enters like a red-headed bulldozer with Luna skipping after her, her blond locks bouncing merrily, all in stark contrast to her girlfriend’s manic stance. Harry’s pretty sure Ginny kicked the door open but decides to let it go this time, in favour of hearing what happened to get her going so hard.

Ginny starts talking as soon as the girls step inside to take their usual seats. “Potter, your tight little arse better be ready because I am about to rock your world,” she says aggressively, flaming red hair falling into her eyes and making her look like a dangerous lunatic.

Harry stares at her in mild horror. “What happened to you?”

“We’re back from Magical Games and Sports,” Luna supplies, grinning in delight and taking Ginny’s hand. “Ginny finally got them to lift the ban on male cheerleaders!”

“Feminism wins, bitches!” Ginny shouts, slamming her hand on the elbow rest, making Harry start.

“She seems… eager,” Harry says politely, his eyebrows nearly hitting his hairline.

“She is!” Luna nods enthusiastically. “I’m so proud of her.”

“And now, I am _winning_ this bet,” Ginny says fiercely, “it’s my turn, so prepare to get romanced so hard, your cock will fall off, Potter!”

Harry gulps. “You’re… scaring me? Also, didn’t you already—”

“Oh, that was Luna,” Ginny says, collecting herself enough to wipe the crazed look off her face. She kisses Luna’s knuckles. “I love you, babe, but you definitely lost, considering.”

“It’s all right, Archie met someone last week and they’re planning to elope!”

Harry stares. Just when he thought his sex life could not get any more depressing, he finds out the 129-year-old man _he stood up_ is doing fantastic, what’s more, he’s running away with the love of his life, who’s probably young, tan, ripped, and has good hair. Harry pictures them in the Bahamas, Archie rubbing sunscreen on smooth, lickable biceps, the lotion on his veiny, arthritic hands glistening in the Caribbean sun. Tanned himbos are bringing them coconut drinks and in the meantime, Harry masturbates his youth away using his own tears as lubricant.

“Where are they eloping?” He asks calmly.

“Skegness.”

_Oh._ “Go Archie, I guess.”

“It will happen to you too one day, Harry,” Ginny pipes in with a knowing expression.

Harry’s sure she’s not talking about the arthritis. “Old Age Pensioneer sex? Brilliant,” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Don’t be a bitch!” Ginny rolls her eyes with a smile. “I am about to change your life with the date I’ve got cooking up for you.”

Harry slips his fingers under his glasses and rubs tiredly at his eyes. “Oh my god.”

“You actually might like it if you gave me a chance,” Ginny scoffs. “Remember I _do_ know you, Harry.”

Harry can’t really say she’s wrong there—they did date, however briefly, and spent a large part of their lives being close friends. He sighs heavily, a lone wolf condemned to wander the world of modern dating, clawing his way up the social ladder. “Fine, I suppose. Who is he? Or she?”

Ginny smirks. “He’s a he and he’s our new Team Healer.”

Harry’s brows raise slightly and Ginny’s smirk widens.

“Before you ask: he’s your age, has a normal voice, really likes Quidditch, has a dog, and,” she shrugs playfully, “he’s a total catch.”

For a brief moment, Harry wonders if it’s actually concern for his withered loins that drives Ginny, or if winning the bet is just a victory lap for her competitive streak that’s the main motivating factor here. Either way, it looks like she thought of everything, the sly fox. “Ginny, I don’t know—”

“Seriously?” She asks incredulously. “You have so much in common, he’s a good guy!” Next to her, Luna nods with a serious expression.

“You just want to have a chance in that stupid betting pool!”

“Do you _really_ think I need the gold?” She deadpans.

“ _No,_ I just _really_ think you want to win.”

Ginny snorts. “Please, I’m already winning.”

“At what?!”

“Life, Harry, my dear boy,” Ginny says gravely and Harry snorts. Fine, whatever. He’s done this so many times already, it can’t hurt to just go along with it.

“All right, I guess,” Harry says. “What else can you tell me? There must be something wrong with him, you know, given my track record.”

There’s a playful tug at the corner of her mouth. “Oh, I don’t know, is being tall and gorgeous wrong? Maybe there’s something you don’t like about six-packs?” Harry stares her down, exasperated. “Well. I mean, he’s reasonably built. Blonde hair, dresses well…”

Harry tries to picture the mystery man and fails, even though the description sounds vaguely familiar. He grimaces. “That’s... Something to go on.”

Ginny scoffs. “Look, I don’t know what men look for in men, in case you didn’t notice,” she says testily and pauses. “I haven’t seen his cock which, thank Merlin for that—”

“It would be seriously disturbing if you have,” Harry says into his hands, where his red face is currently tucked.

“What else…” She taps her finger on her chin. “Jawline? As in… a pronounced one?” She gestures helplessly. “I’m shit at this. Luna?”

“He has kind eyes!” Luna says after deliberation. “That has to be a good thing, right?”

Harry doesn’t have the heart to shoot her down. “Yes, Luna, that’s... a good thing,” he says.

“Oh! And a nice arse! Everyone likes a nice arse, right?” Ginny wiggles her eyebrows at him. “Calves? Uhh, feet? You into feet, Harry? I don’t think you are, but—”

Harry wonders if it’s too late to elope with the salad intern. “Please stop listing body parts.”

Suddenly, Luna gasps in wonder “Oh, he must really resemble Draco! Is that why you picked him, Ginny?”

Harry freezes. What does Draco have to do with anything here? His heart beats a little faster at Luna’s comment and that’s just ridiculous. Does it matter if the bloke looks like Draco? _Does_ he look like Draco? Would it be a good or a bad thing if he did? Does everyone suddenly find Draco attractive and if yes, what’s it to Harry? His stomach feels a little tight at the thought of dating a Draco look alike. It feels wrong for a reason Harry can’t quite put his finger on, it’s not like anyone could replace Draco, that’s just _wrong_ ,and awful, and Harry needs to stop spiralling. He looks at his friends, possibly wearing a spectacular deer-in-the-headlights expression.

“Wha— why would she do that?!” He turns to Ginny. “ _Does_ he look like Draco? Why would it matter? Was it your criteria? Wha—”

“Be more defensive, why don’t you,” Ginny cuts him off with a very strange expression.

“What are you talking about? You chose a Draco look alike?” Harry wishes his idiot mouth would stop talking, wishes he never let himself be sucked into this conversation.

Ginny groans. “Even if I did, which I don’t think I did? Draco’s very attractive so what’s the problem?”

“Do you not think Draco is attractive, Harry?” Luna asks, tilting her head.

Harry suddenly feels hot, and there might be some sweat trickling down the back of his neck and under his collar. There has to be a paragraph for this, manipulating an officer of the law, or, or— misleading one, or spreading misinformation. Harry fidgets uncomfortably in his seat, unsure if he should vehemently deny everything, risking looking stupid if they already suspect what Harry really thinks, or just be casual about it and say it like it’s something obvious. But what would that mean for Harry? It’s one thing to _think_ Draco’s gorgeous but it’s something entirely different to say it out loud. Somehow Harry thinks saying it would make it real, would make it known to the universe that Harry Potter thinks Draco Malfoy is beautiful and Draco would find out and Harry would have to leave the country. Draco doesn’t think that about Harry, he’s sure, and dropping a bomb with the words ‘ _I think I might like you_ ’ written on it in a neat script could make things very, very complicated. Harry isn’t brave enough to think about what it would mean for them if the feeling was mutual. Which Harry doesn’t think it is. Sure, they have… moments. Moments that make Harry’s heart stop, moments he thinks about before bed, moments that stretch out into something longer in his dreams before he startles awake, hot and bothered and… well. But it’s normal for two male friends who are attracted to other men to appreciate the other’s looks.

It’s normal.

And anyway, it doesn’t have to be the case for Draco. But it might, quite, definitely be a little bit for Harry.

Harry wonders if _just thinking_ it is the same as saying it.

“No!” He chokes out. “I mean— yes? As in, objectively— he’s... very, yes. I mean— uhh, sure, that doesn’t—”

Ginny’s mouth hangs open. “Merlin’s balls, Potter, you think Malfoy’s hot!” They’re both staring at him in silent awe until there’s a voice coming from the door.

“You think I’m hot?”

Draco is leaning against the doorframe with a slightly amused expression and if Harry didn’t know him so well, he’d say Draco was striking a supermodel pose but it’s a force of nature, just his natural, effortless elegance at play. There’s a faint, pink blush spread across his cheeks and Harry’s entire brain goes into shutdown. Draco heard their conversation, which means Draco heard Harry’s pathetic little scramble, which probably means _Draco now knows_ and it’s not something Harry’s prepared to handle. Like, at all. He expects Draco’s face to carry the slightest trace of a grimace, maybe annoyance, or even disgust. However, when Draco turns to him, his face is carefully blank, a perfectly pleasant, cool mask, and it makes Harry’s stomach clench, to see that mask for the first time in over a year.

“For the record, I did knock, you were all just too busy screaming about how hot I am, which, well,” Draco says in that calm, collected voice, the smallest smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Harry has to stop looking at Draco’s lips immediately.

Ginny and Luna are unusually quiet and sure, _now_ they’re quiet, only after outing Harry’s creepy opinions and nearly giving him a stroke.

Draco’s face falls slightly as he looks around the office. “Bad time? It’s almost lunch—”

Harry shots a look at the clock. “It’s perfect, actually!” He nods and turns to the girls. “Go _home_ , Ginny, for fuck’s sake.”

Ginny looks slightly offended as she crosses her arms. “Aren’t government employees supposed to be accessible to the public?” She asks wryly.

“You’re not _the public_ , you’re a nuisance!”

She gasps in mock-scandal. “I so am the public! Just you wait until we unionise and take over this shithole you call a government.”

“You can’t say that!” Harry hisses, forever unsure whether it’s safe to put doing something like that past her. “Plausible deniability, Ginny, I told you like ten times!”

“Right,” Draco pipes up. “Ladies, if you would be so kind to go plan the takeover of the Ministry of Magic in the peace of your own home, I would be eternally grateful.”

Harry looks at him incredulously. “You support this?!”

Draco shrugs, perfectly at ease. “It’s going to happen one day anyway, and I’d rather have Ginevra on my side, to be honest.”

“A true opportunist, Malfoy,” Ginny says, not bothering to hide her impressed tone.

“A true Malfoy, Weasley,” Draco smirks. “Right! It’s lunchtime and I’ve taken to watering and nurturing our Saviour in sensible intervals so he doesn’t perish—”

“Sounds like you have an exotic pet,” Ginny interrupts.

Draco hums. “Accurate. Potter—it’s feeding time, ladies, please, _go,”_ he says, whispering the last word.

“I can eat on my own!” Harry looks around their faces, slightly offended at being excluded from the conversation.

“Of course you can,” Ginny says and climbs on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Make sure he drinks water! A normal person shouldn’t just run on coffee like a maniac.”

Draco clicks his tongue. “Please. Now, shoo. Go on.”

“Here’s Daniel’s details, I’ll have him owl you,” Ginny says, pushing a small business card into Harry’s hand. “Bye!”

“Bye, Draco,” Luna says, trying to kiss Draco’s cheek and Draco smiles at her and bends down so she can reach his face.

“Goodbye, my love,” Draco smiles softly, tucking a lock of wavy, blond hair behind her ear. “ _Vive la révolution_.”

“Thank you,” Luna flashes him a bright smile. It falters then, replaced by a thoughtful moue and a tilt of her head. “Draco,” she says, waving and gesturing around him as if swatting off some imaginary creatures. “Don’t be sad. I still think you would make the best—”

“We’re going!” Ginny cuts her off, wrapping an arm around her waist.

Before either Harry or Draco manages to get another word out, the door slams closed and they’re left alone. Harry’s is sweating once again and starts to think it might be a medical problem.

“What was that about?” Draco frowns, not looking at Harry. Harry though, watches him intently until Draco turns around. “What?”

“Since when are you so close with Luna?” Harry blurts without thinking before he can say something fundamentally stupid, like _it’s not what you think_ , or worse, _I really meant that, you know_.

Draco shakes his head quickly, surprised by the question. “Since I have realised she’s the purest person on this godforsaken planet and needs to be protected by all costs which— a long time ago?”

Harry opens and closes his mouth. “Point.”

“Thank you,” Draco says with a smirk. “And here you are, still thinking I’m evil.”

“Oh, come on!” Harry goes a little red and Draco snorts.

“Can we go eat now? I need to smell something that’s not Acromantula bile.”

Draco turns to leave and for a second, Harry doesn’t move. Suddenly, his body shifts on its own and he grabs Draco’s wrist. It’s warm, and smooth, and so slender, Harry can feel his pulse quicken under the paper-thin, alabaster skin. “Draco,” he gulps. “I don’t think you’re evil.”

Something possesses Harry to rub a tiny circle into the skin of Draco’s wrist, and he can feel the fine bone, fragile like porcelain, and, out of the blue, he thinks how it would feel against his lips, what Draco would say if he mouthed along the tendons stretching in between the purplish veins, if he would tell Harry to stop or do something else entirely. He wonders how many ways could it all go if Harry was just a little braver and that’s a dangerous thing to think about in his tiny office, in the middle of the day, while holding Draco by the wrist.

Draco, however, doesn’t move. He doesn’t even breathe, as far as Harry can hear, he just drills his steady, silver gaze into Harry and there’s a thunderstorm behind his irises, and a little twitch Harry can feel under his fingers but Draco doesn’t shake him off and Harry doesn’t let go. Not until Draco understands. “Yeah,” his voice comes out raspy. “Okay. I know you don’t.”

Harry loosens his grip and Draco lets out the breath he was holding, and as they part, Harry slides his hand down Draco’s, their fingers brushing, and if either of them moved an inch, they would catch on one another, maybe even entwine a little and that image makes something hot twist inside him.

They both brush it off and, after some awkward fumbling, leave for lunch, shoulder in shoulder, and the silence is a little more charged this time and Harry has no idea how to turn all of it around.

  


* * *

  


“So, you’re feeding me now?”

They’re sitting in a small Italian bistro, Draco with a steaming plate of pasta carbonara in front of him, Harry with a lovely thin-crust pizza that seemed to be poorly topped but ended up being the best he’s ever had, thanks to Draco’s habit of choosing his food for him at virtually any place that had tablecloths. Harry doesn’t mind, knowing he always ends up loving whatever Draco chooses. He doesn’t mind Draco’s smile either.

“Would you have gotten something to eat otherwise?” Draco asks, expertly swirling a neat portion of pasta on his fork.

“Yes, of course?!”

“Snacks don’t count, Potter,” Draco smirks.

Harry takes a deep breath, at loss for words. “Well, that depends—”

“If you don’t eat it with actual cutlery, on an actual plate, it’s a snack.”

“That’s not fair! What about— about—”

“You’re making it worse,” Draco quips.

“Whatever.”

Draco just laughs—privately, quietly, his voice low and mellifluous and Harry wants to swallow the sound.

“Why, though?”

The laughter stops—Draco looks down at his food, now pushing it around his plate with a strangely mournful expression.

“Isn’t it what friends do?”

Harry just nods, smiling softly and they silently turn back to their respective meals.

  


* * *

  


On the way back, the atmosphere is somewhat lighter and thankfully, their interactions steer back to the usual jabs and conversations about unimportant things. They make jokes, stop in front of store windows to look at the displays, and make a little detour to the French bakery again. By the time they’re back in Harry’s office, with Draco splayed in the chair opposite Harry, everything seems back to normal, or so Harry thinks.

“So what’s that about me being hot?” Draco asks playfully, his fingers toying with the buttons on his robes.

He must feel the sudden shift in the air and lets out a quiet laugh, and Harry glances up from his desk to see Draco watch him with amusement.

“Relax, Potter, I know you wouldn’t voluntarily say something like that.” He shoots Harry a weak smile but quickly looks away and something ugly pushes inside Harry’s chest. “I can only imagine what mind games those two have stooped to in order to get you so agitated.”

“Yeah,” he breathes. “That, and Ginny’s set me up on another date.”

Draco raises a brow. “And let me guess, that person is absolutely _perfect_ for you?” He asks in a bored tone, making Harry laugh.

“That’s pretty much what she said,” Harry shrugs. “Some new Healer for the Harpies, or something.”

Draco pauses at that. “Wait, what did she say his name was?”

“Daniel, I think?” Harry pulls the business card out of his pocket. “Yeah, Daniel Mallow,” he reads.

Draco goes strangely quiet and that can’t mean anything good. “Oh. I… I know him.”

Harry’s stomach sinks a little because if he understands what Draco is saying, and if what Ginny said about Daniel’s looks is true, then that must mean—

“Jesus, not like _that_ , do get your mind out of the gutter,” Draco says exasperatedly, reading Harry’s expression in a matter of seconds. “Not all gay men have slept with each other, you know,” he adds grumpily.

“No, no! I don’t think that!” Harry says defensively, a little ashamed his thoughts went straight there. Some apocalyptic part of his mind just assumed that if Draco knew an attractive, affable young man, it was only logical they would hit it off and ride off into the sunset together. “So…”

“If you must know,” Draco sighs, “We met at the Potioneer and Alchemist Convention last year, he hosted a panel about the alternative applications of Erumpent fluid,” he waves his hand dismissively. “Our teams ended up sitting next to each other at the closing ceremony. He’s… nice, I suppose.” If Draco’s tone is any indication, Daniel is probably all smiles and kindness—Draco never trusts people like that, no matter how good-looking they are.

“I… see,” Harry says, treading carefully, curious if Draco will say anything more.

“Still,” Draco rolls his eyes. “The man’s the human equivalent of a participation prize.” And there it is.

“The— What does that even mean?”

Draco looks up at the ceiling and back to Harry. “ _Nothing_. He’s nice, he’s handsome, he’s intelligent. He’d be perfect for you,” Draco adds quietly and there’s the crease between his brows, and Harry knows it must be difficult for him to say for some reason but if he asks, Draco will probably shut down and brush it off like it’s nothing. It’s a little infuriating, to resort to psychological manoeuvres to extract Draco’s meanings and glances, and Harry wishes he could just read his mind because the way Draco said ‘perfect’ sounded like there was something wrong with ‘perfect’. And that only raises more questions without answers Harry finds himself needing more and more.

“But you said—”

“Don’t worry about it.” Draco goes silent but definitely feels Harry staring a hole in the side of his face. Finally, he breaks. “Look, if he were a breakfast food, he’d be porridge. Perfectly bland and regular but also nutritious and a choice that’s…”

“Boring?” Harry asks incredulously.

Draco’s lips form a thin line. “I was going to say safe.”

“You think that’s what I need?”

Draco shakes his head. “I’m not one to tell others what they need, least of all you. We both know you’d do the exact opposite, given your track record of doing what you’re told.”

Harry laughs weakly, unable to bring himself to really mean it.

“But I think I can safely express what I think you _deserve_ , after… everything. And that’s someone…” He bites his lip and looks at Harry pensively. “Good.”

“And safe.”

“And safe,” Draco acquiesces.

After a few minutes of silence, Draco speaks again. “And mister Porridge isn’t a bad person. I think he’d be… _good_ for you.”

  


* * *

  


Harry has trouble falling asleep that night. He can’t stop thinking about what Draco said and how he looked at him, trying to decipher all his little tells and what they meant. But more importantly, Harry can’t help but think about the things Draco didn’t say—the things lurking behind subdued smiles stifled with subtle coughs, hidden in those strange, somber glances. He thinks about the date tomorrow, and the things Draco said about Daniel. After some substantial tossing and turning, Harry finds himself annoyed with Draco, with that presumptuousness making him say things he’s convinced Harry wants to hear.

The thing about Draco is, he finds it difficult to ask for things he’s not sure are okay to take, to be given freely. He loves to be dramatic about it, almost martyr-like, stuck in a hopeless self-punishing cycle he’s still learning to break. Back before their friendship had cemented itself in the cracks and spaces that separated them for most of their lives, Draco had trouble believing and accepting anything remotely good if it bore the tiniest hallmark of selfishness, convinced his life should continue on the path of servitude, no matter if it were his father or some made-up sense of responsibility. Draco likes to say Harry has a Saviour Complex and revels in self-sacrifice but perhaps he just doesn’t see how similar they are in that department—the only difference being their house traits. It should be silly, to stick to some ‘made-up system of dividing people into groups based on randomly selected character traits’, as Hermione likes to say, and Harry _knows_ that. And still, while Harry sacrificed things for the greater good, for an idea that’s morally correct and inherently just, everything Draco had sacrificed, was for the people close to him, their safety and happiness, and that leaves Harry wishing he knew how to get Draco to make his own bloody self happy for a change.

Harry also thinks about the date with Daniel tomorrow and he searches his mind for a solid decision on whether it’s a good idea or not. It makes something uneasy clench in his stomach, not really despite what Draco said about him, but _because_ he said those things, because of that little sliver of bitterness and grief in his voice, and all the things it could have meant.

Finally, Harry’s mind keeps going back to all those… moments; all the things that kept happening between them. And while one or two slip-ups could have been called an accident and moved on from, those fleeting seconds when he felt there was something _more_ , a strange longing flooding his chest, or a passing impulse to do something big and scary, became a part of his interactions with Draco and it was as terrifying as it was thrilling. And Harry finds himself scared like he was never before—it feels like standing in a desolate moor after a bomb fell and while he doesn’t know how it got there or who dropped it, all he has left is to wait for the blast wave to hit him.

  


* * *

  


Harry wakes up after a few hours of fitful sleep and more questions than answers. All day, the awful, sick feeling in his stomach makes him feel like he’s done something wrong and unable to forget about it, like there’s something he forgot and should have done ages ago. He blames it on his nerves, on the date he has later tonight, on a number of things that don’t really matter and it manages to stifle his conscience, albeit poorly, like slapping some Spell-o-Tape on a leaking dam.

He goes out with Daniel after getting a few extra hours of sleep in the afternoon and it’s just as Draco said it would be—absolutely perfect.

They go to a fancy French restaurant and Harry wishes he knew something about the place before he got there—he immediately feels underdressed and out of place, and when Daniel arrives, he only says Harry looks nice and Harry smiles weakly and wishes they had gone somewhere else.

Daniel is courteous and polite, funny and smart, and the man seems like he hasn’t got a single mean bone in his body. He’s fully engaged in the conversation, opens doors for him and even compliments his looks, even though Harry knows his hair is a disaster and there are shadows under his eyes that make him look like a Werewolf after a full moon. Daniel is, in fact, so nice, he doesn’t even comment on Harry’s terrible dish choice, laughs at every single one of his jokes—even if Harry himself cringes inwardly at a thing or two he says—and doesn’t bat an eyelash when Harry asks for a beer instead of wine.

Daniel is extremely good looking, too. His hair is a dark shade of blond, perfectly coiffed without a strand out of place, and even with the wind blowing outside it stays in place without looking like a helmet. It doesn’t get attractively tousled when he runs his hand through it or fall into his eyes when he bends over the menu, and lacks the moonlight glimmer Harry’s so used to seeing in blond hair. His eyes are the bluest blue Harry’s ever seen and they make his face look soft and kind, without any sharpness or bite. Those calm, soothing eyes combined with his soft, rounded features make the man look like an actual fairy tale prince. He smells nice, too—it’s nothing fresh or sharp, the cologne he uses is more subdued and earthy, like a fireplace with the fire put out, maybe like a house with the windows closed—it doesn’t make Harry feel anything but it still perfectly pleasant and somehow fits Daniel, with his kind face, gentle demeanour, and calm, neutral voice.

They talk about safe, mundane things and Daniel seems to like everything, to be absolutely fine with all the things Harry says without seeming to have no spine; he listens rather than talks, probably not wanting to come off too opinionated, or perhaps actually not being like that at all. The conversation flows like a lazy river rather than a tempestuous mountain stream—it’s not difficult or especially challenging in any way, but rather relaxed in the sleepy kind of way that people feel too guilty to call boring. Just like Draco said—it’s good for him. It’s safe.

The evening doesn’t exactly drag on; it somehow manages to be easy and tranquil while simultaneously making Harry feel he’s not making an effort. It’s hard to put his finger on whether it’s because talking to Daniel is so unbelievably simple or because there’s something about Harry and his relationship with things that are hard, dangerous or infuriating.

The thing about easy things though, is that the results tend to be as satisfying as the challenge which, in this case, is not too thrilling.

Harry feels the increasing sensation of guilt crawling deeper and deeper under his skin and when he finally realises what might be the reason for that, the shift inside him is so powerful, he clutches the elbow rest of his chair hard enough that his knuckles turn white.

It dawns on him that what Draco said wasn’t true. There was something very wrong with Daniel and that was the fact that there was absolutely _nothing_ wrong with him.

Harry thinks about Daniel and the images of his happy childhood he got a glimpse of during the course of their conversation—it was full, with smooth, clean edges, dappled in sunlight and laughter—not a single crack in that flawless, picturesque vision of a young man with a dashing smile that he is now. He’s _whole—_ without a single piece out of place, without any dents where another person could really fit to fill them where needed, to be filled back in places where their own substance was lacking. And Harry, with all his jagged edges, with all his life that’s singed and maybe a little fractured, isn’t sure how to hold on to something like that.

He thinks about Daniel’s kindness, about how amiable he is, and finds himself wanting more than that, Daniel is lacking the balance Harry so desperately needs, the riveting, electrifying push-and-pull he thrives on, the stir of fire deep in his belly, the intoxicating, drunk feeling of being alive, making mistakes, and coming home.

They leave the restaurant and Harry’s heart almost jumps out of his chest, he’s nauseous with the prickling ice that fills his stomach as the truth he felt in his heart for a while, finally dawns on him—Harry, in all his confusion and utter stupidity, has completely, tragically, abysmally fucked everything up.

Still dazed, with the sky crashing down on him, Harry doesn’t notice Daniel is suddenly very close. He barely hears him say he had a nice time, and that word, _nice_ , rings in his ears like a broken record. From up close he can see Daniel’s perfect hair that’s just a tad too dark, just a little too short to run his fingers through—it’s not the hair Harry dreams about tugging on, and waking up to seeing it spill onto the pillows. His blue eyes are like a clear, cerulean lake reflecting a cloudless sky, there are no gilded speckles, no thunderstorms rumbling behind them, they don’t glisten like quicksilver, sharp, alive, and oh, so beautiful. Everything about Daniel is soft; the angle of his jaw, the gentle arch of his cheekbones and the hand Harry feels brushing his face is too large, a little sturdy and—

Daniel kisses him. It’s a soft peck, it’s tame and safe and all the things that Daniel is and he doesn’t taste like chocolate or wine, doesn’t smell like citrus and spice and the thought of his lips on Harry’s doesn’t send a shiver down his spine like it ought to. He breaks it off after a second or two like he’s been hit with a Stunner and if Daniel is surprised he doesn’t show it, being the kind, polite, perfect model of man that he is.

Harry hopes that somewhere in his barely-there state, he managed to thank Daniel for the evening; he must say something as he registers the man smile like Harry deserves it, an easy thing Harry doesn’t even feel he worked for, and he leaves with a wave. Harry watches him walk away, finally alone with his thoughts and it should be awful, and Harry feels like an arsehole for barely noticing he’s gone.

Standing on the curb as cars pass a little too close, with a streetlight directly over his head, Harry realises there will be no blast wave. He’s left with the fallout, slowly descending over him like speckles of golden dust and bringing a looming sense of finality. He has to physically shake himself out of it and a new wave of nausea hits as Harry starts to walk.

He begs, and pleads, and prays to whoever is listening, and hopes with everything he has that he won’t get there too late.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art Tumblr post [here.](https://slytherco.tumblr.com/post/627265546030858240/he-opens-his-shirt-with-trembling-hands-and-shucks)

By the time Draco opens the door and lets him into his flat, Harry has rehearsed about a hundred versions of what he’s going to say.

_I hope I’m not too late._

_We need to talk—_

_Why didn’t you say anything?_

_I want to tell you something—_

_I want you._

_I think I love you._

“What are you doing here?” Draco asks in lieu of greeting and steps aside to let him in.

Harry comes inside and goes straight to the living room—he knows this place like the back of his hand. He’s spent so many days and nights here, more than he could count—telly nights, dinners, get-togethers, sometimes Harry would just drop in unannounced to spend some time with Draco. It’s ridiculous how he knows where his favourite mug is, how he has a favourite spot on the couch and despite all that, he never figured out why it was always so normal, so naturally good, and it feels like he’s here for the very first time. Draco’s steps echo from the hallway as he follows and enters the room to find Harry pacing nervously from one side of the couch to another.

“Hello,” Draco says slowly, a little worry lacing his voice. “Welcome to my home. How was the date?”

Harry stops in his tracks and looks at Draco. Just like with the flat, he feels like he’s getting to really _see_ Draco for the first time in what feels like years. How did he never notice how strikingly, devastatingly beautiful Draco is? He’s wearing a white shirt and a pair of trousers as usual, but he’s barefoot and Harry can’t remember if he’s ever seen Draco’s feet before—their slim arches and the long, slender toes dipping into the thick carpet—he looks so soft and domestic, and Harry realises he’s always liked seeing Draco be soft. His shirt is a little loose, two, no, three buttons open at the collar and Harry sees a thin pink scar peeking out, licking over his collarbone and for a moment, he forgets how to breathe.

His legs give out under him and Harry lowers himself onto the couch, watching Draco as if making sure he’s not a mirage.

“You’re scaring me a little,” Draco says with a knitted brow. “Are you hurt?”

Harry opens his mouth but nothing comes out and Draco comes closer. The couch dips under him and Draco sits down, a little further away than usual, giving Harry space for some unfathomable reason, and it’s infuriating when he’s just understood that distance from Draco is the last thing he wants right now.

It’s probably the last thing he’s wanted for a while, so sod rehearsals.

“What does your Amortentia smell like?” He blurts out, turning his head just in time to watch concern give way to complete mortification on Draco’s face.

“W— what?”

Harry doesn’t take his eyes off him, not for a second. He’s made this mistake before, he wasn’t paying attention, he was looking but he didn’t _see_. He just hopes this time, he will look properly, and it won’t be too late.

“Back at your office,” Harry says. “I wanted to ask but it felt— I don’t know,” he breathes. “So I didn’t ask. But I’m asking now.”

Draco looks so pale in the dim light he’s almost translucent. “I don’t—”

“Draco,” Harry sighs more than says, his heart hammering so hard he suspects Draco can hear it. “Please. Tell me.”

Harry turns on the couch to face Draco, tucks one of his legs under him, and waits.

_Look at him. So you don’t miss it this time._

Draco looks defeated, miserable. When he finally speaks, he’s not looking at Harry but at his own hands fidgeting nervously in his lap. “Like leather,” he whispers croakily. “And broom polish, and ozone, and there’s a hint of cloves, and—” his voice hitches and he closes his eyes as if it would make him disappear.

“And?” Harry whispers.

Draco shrugs helplessly. “Light.”

He’s speechless. It’s not a coincidence, it _can’t_ be.

“How long?” Harry chokes out the words with a tight throat.

“Longer than I’d care to admit, I think,” Draco says, a bitter smile tugging at his lips.

“Draco—”

He raises a shaky hand. “I might tell you one day. When I’m over you.”

Harry opens his mouth around the first syllable and struggles to get his voice working. “Over me?

Draco doesn’t say anything, just sits there with his shoulders hunched protectively, tense and wrecked.

“God, Draco. Oh my god,” Harry whispers and runs his hands through his hair so they would stop shaking.

“I’m sorry. I... I truly am,” Draco says as he finally turns to face Harry, mirroring his position. “It was… hard. Watching you, and being so close to you and I thought, how far does it have to go— how far can I stretch this fantasy until it all shatters— It was unfair, Harry, to both of us, I thought I could keep it in check, shut out that part of me, and just be your friend, and—” he lets out a sharp exhale, gazing at Harry and his eyes are almost pleading.

“Fuck, Draco.” He moves closer to him on the couch and Draco nearly recoils, it looks like he’s nearly forcing himself to stay put, and Harry’s heart breaks a little. “Have you gone mad? I’m the one who should be apologising,” Harry says and he’s angry, at himself, at his stupid hot-headedness. “Fuck, I was such an arsehole. Everything I did I— I had no idea. And all this time— _Fuck_.”

“Harry—”

“I had no idea,” Harry repeats and is so afraid that he’s lying because even a blind man would see it, so how could he not have known? “Just flaunting it when…” He trails off, trying to clear his head. This is the only chance he will get to make this right. To not lose Draco.

“I… apologise if I made you uncomfortable—”

“I wasn’t paying attention and I— Draco—”

Draco isn’t fully listening to his rambling, still apologising, still trying to play it down. But his hands are shaking and his breath hitches on every other word and Harry needs him to be quiet just for a minute, he needs to explain, he—

“Draco,” Harry says, more firmly this time, and Draco finally stops talking. Harry decides it’s maybe time to actually _do_ something, and he likes to think he’s better at doing than talking, so slowly, carefully, he takes one of Draco’s hands in his.

It sends a rush of sensation up his arm and this, this is his own brand of _perfect_ , this is what he wants, Draco’s slim, delicate fingers twining with his, their pulses fluttering against each other like two terrified hummingbirds, and his heady, intoxicating smell that makes Harry’s head spin. He can feel Draco’s thumb rub a small, unconscious circle into his knuckles; it’s like a eulogy, like Draco is using his only opportunity to exist in this dreamlike bubble before it breaks and Harry’s gone.

And Harry smiles, small and wrenching, because he needs to tell Draco he’s not going anywhere.

“Draco,” he says softly, returning the tentative touch, and he hears Draco’s breath hitch. “I was an idiot, you see. I was looking, and looking, for Merlin knows what, going on all those ridiculous dates,” Harry huffs. “And there was something wrong with every single person. And I thought maybe there’s just something wrong with me—”

Draco pipes up at that on instinct, but Harry shushes him. “But that wasn’t the case, at least not entirely. I was too stupid, too… blind to see,” Harry takes a long, uneven breath and isn’t sure he’s brave enough to say it. He’s scared and excited and only finds the bravery to continue because of the way Draco is looking at him. “That I already had someone perfect right before my eyes. All this time, Draco.”

His voice trembles a little and so does his hand when he brings it up to the side of Draco’s face, cupping his cheek. Draco sighs, a raging storm in those silver eyes and his lips are slightly parted. Harry’s heart is probably in another galaxy by now, but he can’t stop himself so he leans in a little, a fraction of an inch. Closer. Just a little closer.

There’s a breath, a hand on his neck, and Draco pulls him in the rest of the way.

Draco’s _kissing him_.

Their lips finally touch and it’s everything Harry had imagined, and somehow more, and better, and it’s completely, absolutely breathtaking. He can feel every inch of Draco’s mouth, soft and pliant under his own, and Harry briefly thinks that _this_ is what it should feel like. It feels like falling, or more like the moment right before hitting the ground, extended in time—all air is gone from his lungs, his body weightless.

Harry brings his other hand up and cards it through Draco’s hair and it’s so soft he does it a few more times, brushing it out of Draco’s eyes and smiling into the kiss. It’s nothing more than a press of lips but his heart is already leaping out of control, and it doesn’t matter that his glasses are in the way or that the angle is awkward, all that matters is Draco, his lips, his soft exhalations, and his hands cupping Harry’s face. He feels light-headed, transported, and he’s pretty sure he sees stars when Draco makes a small sound at the back of his throat. The initial sweetness begins to give way to a visceral hunger, something he’s been only half-aware of even possessing, and Harry sighs, and holds Draco a little closer.

It’s dangerous and intoxicating, to think about all the things he wants to do to Draco, and also the things Harry wants done to him, over and over again, right now, right here on this couch. But not until he says what he came here to say.

They slowly break apart but stay close enough so Harry can steal one, two, three more soft, featherlight kisses and Draco seems to melt in his hands as Harry feels his pulse hammer against his fingertips, under the soft skin of Draco’s neck. He’s holding on to Harry for dear life, clutching his wrists to try and hide the tremble in his hands as he breathes against Harry’s lips. He smells like chocolate, warm and velvety.

“Draco,” he whispers.

“One more,” Draco murmurs and kisses him again, desperately, like he’s making sure Harry’s there, real and alive, and not imagined.

And Harry can’t say no to him, can’t give up that soft, plush mouth that clings to his like honey, leaving a touch of wetness in its wake that Harry wants to get drunk on. So he kisses back, brushing Draco’s temples with the tips of his fingers and cupping his cheeks, swallows those small sounds and hums his joy along the seam of Draco’s lips.

He tries to break away, at least for a second, to make sure Draco _knows_ , to tell him everything he’s been repeating in his head like a mantra for the last hour. Murmuring Draco’s name right against his mouth, Harry slows down to stutter out the words and seals each sentence with another kiss, like an _amen_ at the end of a prayer, promise and absolution dripping from every touch.

“Draco. I don’t want—porridge. I don’t want perfect—I don’t want good and safe—I—I want to buy you stupid brioches—I want it all—the movie nights—the snobby wines—the scars and—”

 _Everything_. Harry wants everything Draco is willing to give, wants to strip himself bare and offer himself up for the taking. Draco wraps an arm around his neck, the other around his waist and kisses him again. He can feel the tip of Draco’s tongue brush against his lips and opens up to that hot wetness, licking and sucking as they both scramble for purchase, gripping each other’s shirts and groaning into the searing kiss.

Draco has to physically tear himself away from Harry, gasping for air. “I’m possessive,” he breathes, looking at him, completely wrecked. “Sometimes arrogant. I will make you go to the opera with me, I hate that show you watch, the one about cars, I’m bossy, I leave my stuff everywhere, I want to hold hands, I want a dog, I want to kiss you _every bloody day_ —”

Harry kisses him again, slow, deep, and dazed. “Yes. Draco, yes, _yes_ , I want that, all of it. I want you _because_ of that—because you’re _not_ a safe choice, I don’t _need_ safe, I don’t _want_ safe, I want you, you, just you—”

Draco lunges forward, capturing Harry’s mouth once again, all clashing teeth and throaty moans as they fall back onto the sofa, Draco on top. He licks into Harry’s mouth, nestling himself in the vee of his thighs, and holds him by the hair, sending a wave of fire down Harry’s back.

“You’re insane,” Draco pants, leaving a trail of wet, suckling kisses along the tendon on his neck, all the way down to his collarbone. “You’re a maniac and you will be the absolute death of me, you’re—”

“I’m in love with you,” Harry murmurs and draws Draco up so he can suck his lower lip between his teeth.

“You’re—”

“In love. With you.”

“You’re in love with me.”

“Stupidly. Like a fool,” he says, a small smile tugging on his lips.

Draco doesn’t say anything, just looks at him like Harry’s the only person in the world. It makes him shudder with need so he pulls Draco back by the neck, anxious to keep kissing him, to make up for the time when he was too stupid to notice his own feelings—and what a frustrating thought, to know they could have been doing _this_ all along. Draco shares the sentiment, judging by the groan he lets out in response—the kiss is now a slow, deliberate slide of tongues, Draco’s fingers ghosting over Harry’s clothed ribs and tangling in his hair. At one point, Draco carefully takes his glasses off and puts them on the coffee table. The slight change of angle makes them both gasp and as Draco stretches to reach the table, Harry sees the tented front of his trousers, sees the outline of Draco’s cock through the fabric and suddenly, he becomes aware of his own arousal and the low, bubbling heat building up at the base of his spine.

It should be a little scary—Harry’s never gone so far with another man. Hell, he’s never done _anything_ with another man for that matter, but the sliver of nervousness that he’s been feeling in the back of his mind dissipates as soon as Draco is on him again. He latches his mouth onto Harry’s neck, sucking and licking his way up, and Harry bucks under him when Draco catches his earlobe between his teeth. He nibs at the sensitive skin, laving the spot with his tongue, and it goes straight to Harry’s cock—he lets out a low moan and paws at Draco’s arse, digging his fingertips into the firm flesh. They settle on a slow, delicious rhythm and it’s so insanely good, Harry thinks he might come in his pants like the virgin he is if Draco doesn’t stop the relentless, devastating drag of his hips. 

He needs more, he needs them to be wearing fewer clothes; and the thought of how it would feel if they were naked only makes Harry rock his hips harder, desperately seeking friction. He slides his hands under Draco’s shirt, all the way up his back, and Draco shivers under the slow drag of his fingernails. His shirt rides up at the front and Harry can see a glorious patch of pale skin, Draco’s toned stomach, and a trail of dark blond hair under his navel, going down and disappearing under his belt. The sight alone makes Harry’s mouth go dry. He wants to slide his hand down that stomach, wants to drag his fingers over the coarse hairs and cup that bulge, feel the hard evidence that Draco loves it just as much as he does.

It hits him how different this is, being with a man. With girls, it was all soft curves and delicate touches, everything felt flowy and smooth, delicate. It’s different with Draco. He’s toned and slender, just as strong as Harry, and there’s an urgent force to his touches, to the way Draco devours his mouth and shamelessly ruts against him. It’s strangely metaphorical, that even in the throes of passion, frotting on the couch with their tongues down each other’s throats, Harry and Draco add a dash of their mutual push-and-pull that only makes things all the more exciting. Harry’s breath speeds up at the scratch of stubble against his neck, at the hard planes of muscle and sharp juts of bone under his palms. It had never occurred to Harry that he might like it a little rough but he feels Draco’s solid, bulky weight on top of him, feels a hand gripping him by the hair and finds that he _likes_ it, finds it so incredibly arousing to be manhandled like this, he groans into Draco’s mouth, fruitlessly trying to pick up the pace. The knowledge that Draco can overpower him, hold him down using just his thighs and arms, makes him dizzy with desire. He doesn’t need to be as careful as he would with a girl, not with the way Draco bites at the corner of his jaw and pins him to the couch.

Yeah, he’s definitely bi.

Their kisses grow in intensity and Harry finally finds some leverage—he grips Draco’s arse and grinds against him, once, twice, feeling that hot, hard length against his inner thigh. He knows the odds of them both coming in their pants like a couple of teenagers are growing with every minute, every time Draco rocks his hips and licks into his mouth. Harry wouldn’t mind it at this point, if only he didn’t know how much better it could feel with just a few… adjustments. Draco slides a cool, soft hand under his shirt and just leaves it there, ghosting over his ribs. Harry, in all his inexperience, deliberates if he should be the one to make that move, if maybe Draco feels like he shouldn’t push him, if the slight stutter to his movements has anything to do with restraint.

“Draco, I—”

Draco swallows the sound with a searing kiss and Harry’s mind goes blank—he kisses back, helpless against his growing arousal, the fire simmering in his belly. Suddenly, Draco slows down, pressing his forehead against Harry’s—his eyes are squeezed shut, lips puffy and wet.

He brushes a thumb across Harry’s cheek, his breath slowing down. “Wait, wait, fuck,” he whispers. “We need to stop.”

‘Wh—” Harry starts and sudden worry creeps its way under his skin. “Is this,” he swallows, “good?”

Draco lets out a breathless laugh and kisses him once, a chaste smack of lips which Harry leans into on instinct.

“Oh my god,” Draco groans, “ _is this good_ , he asks. Harry,” his thumb moves lower, tracing Harry’s lower lip. It’s a little sore where Draco’s teeth left their mark and Harry sucks in a breath. He wonders what would happen if he sucked Draco’s thumb into his mouth.

“Then why are we stopping?” Harry asks, trying not to sound petulant but still pointedly rocking his hips once, coaxing a low growl out of Draco.

“Because if we keep this up, I… I’m going to want to—” he exhales, bumping his nose against Harry’s, “—do things to you.”

Harry feels his cock twitch against his zipper—he has an idea what _things_ Draco means and he’s not sure if it’s the haze of arousal or the fact that the longer they do this, the more certain Harry is he’s been in love with Draco for longer than he’d anticipated, but Harry knows he wants it. Wants it to be Draco. And it’s not some bullshit about flowers or initiations—Harry wants him, wants his heart and his body, wants Draco to do all those things to him, and wants to wake up next to him and do it all over again.

He tries to tell Draco just that.

“Is that… a bad thing?” He asks, watching Draco’s expression. He seems as nervous as Harry probably should be and all he wants is to kiss—and bite, and lick— it all away.

“I—” Draco’s eyes are dark with blown pupils, his hair is a mess and he’s looking at Harry with something that could only be described as barely restrained hunger. “I don’t want to make you do anything—”

“—I don’t want, yeah,” Harry huffs. “But I want this. I want _you_.”

Draco watches him for a few seconds, searching his face for some kind of indication and it seems that he gets it—he lifts himself up with catlike grace and pulls Harry up and off the couch, straight into his arms.

He kisses Harry deeply. “And you’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Say it again.”

“I want you, Draco,” Harry murmurs and god, does he want Draco. He wants him in all the ways Draco will allow, he wants him so much he’s throbbing with it and he kisses Draco again, and again, just because he can, because he tastes like sex incarnate and Harry’s _in love_ with him and he’s so happy he wants to laugh.

“Come here,” Draco says, lacing their fingers together, and taking a step back. He raises an eyebrow at Harry’s puzzled look. “We’re not having sex on a couch while there’s a bed with thousand-thread count Egyptian Cotton sheets in the bedroom.”

Harry smiles and follows him, anticipation stirring in his gut; he’s calmed down a bit but his cock is still half-hard and so is Draco’s, judging by the telling bulge he shamelessly parades down the hall. They barely cross the threshold and Draco is on him in seconds, holding him by the hip, one hand fisted in his hair and Harry moans, and steers them in the general direction of the king-size bed. There’s a single lamp in the corner, bathing the room in a warm, golden glow, just enough so the room isn’t pitch-black. Harry gently pushes Draco down onto the sheets and watches him crawl up the bed to make room—propped against the headboard, he looks like a god of depravity, all tousled hair and flushed skin dappled with warm light. His shirt is open at the collar, his bare toes are digging into the sheets—he’s absolutely, devastatingly gorgeous. Harry quickly follows; he takes off his shoes and socks and climbs onto the bed to straddle Draco’s hips.

He bends down for a kiss, slow and tender, feeling Draco shiver under him. “Hi.”

“Hello.”

Harry smiles and kisses Draco again, deeper this time, coaxing out a low moan.

This is it. It’s happening, he thinks, and there’s excitement stirring in his stomach as he slowly rocks against Draco feeling his blood rush and his cock fill. He’s not sure how it’s going to happen yet but that doesn’t stop the sparks of electricity going down his spine, doesn’t make his shallow thrusts any less eager—he needs more, he wants to make it count, he—

“Wait,” Draco gasps. “Stop, fuck, Harry, slow down. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right,” he rasps against his lips, making Harry groan.

“But you said—”

“I remember what I said.”

“It’s not an initiation—”

“No, it’s not,” Draco says softly, massaging Harry’s thighs. “But it’s not nothing, either. Not with you. Not when I—” He blushes furiously, biting his lip. “Not when I’m in love.”

And it’s not like Harry doesn’t know—Draco made his feelings abundantly clear, just minutes ago—still, hearing him say it out loud makes Harry’s heart leap and he does everything in his power not to pounce on Draco right then and there, taking it slow be damned.

Harry nods instead, and slowly, carefully, lifts his hands to fiddle with the buttons on Draco’s shirt. “Slow, then.”

Draco lets out a shaky, ragged breath and nods as Harry opens each button, unhurriedly, one by one, until Draco’s shirt hangs open and Harry helps him out of it. And then, he stops.

It’s not like Harry didn’t know they were there—he was the one who cast the spell. He’s the one responsible for Draco walking around with a constant reminder they once tried to kill each other. Something tightens in Harry’s throat when he thinks how far they’ve come, how different things would have been if they were friends from the start, if they both weren’t so fucking stubborn. He stares, transfixed, at the thin, pink lines slashing across Draco’s chest with his mouth agape and before he can say anything, Draco moves his hand to lift his chin.

“Hey. We talked about this,” he whispers. “It’s in the past.” He watches Harry intently, his eyes roaring with emotion. “Come here.”

Harry lunges forward into the kiss, palming at Draco’s ribs, his heart, tracing his scars with trembling fingers, kissing his apologies into Draco’s mouth, and in exchange, Draco whispers reassurances between choked breaths and hot swipes of tongue. _It’s okay, everything’s okay._ Draco grabs his arse and his hands go up, under his shirt, the touch setting Harry on fire and he tries to forget about the past, about once hating a beautiful, lost boy, about how they both felt at the time, and focuses on what’s in front of him—that same boy, now a man, who loves him, and touches him as if he were sacred, and kisses him like he’s been waiting for it for years. With a whole new expanse of smooth, milky skin to work with, Harry lets his hands roam, brushing every inch of flesh he can reach—shoulder blades, the small of Draco’s back, ribs, shoulders, biceps—Draco hisses into his mouth as Harry circles his nipples with his thumbs, immediately wanting to circle them with his tongue, too.

There’s just one more thing to be done.

“Draco,” he gasps against his lips.

“What’s wrong?”

“I need to—” Harry groans as Draco bites at his neck and sucks hard kisses into his skin, his stubble leaving it reddened and sensitive. He’s going to have bruises and the mere thought of being marked makes his cock drool in his trousers. The lovebites aren’t even visible yet and Harry’s already half-aware he won’t be healing them—there’s something thrilling in the idea of him looking in the mirror tomorrow and seeing Draco’s marks, being claimed with those lips and teeth for everyone to see, for Draco to know, and for Harry to feel—a tender, physical reminder of their activities. The thought turns up the heat growing at the base of his spine, making Harry bare his neck in a silent plea for more.

After a while, he gently disentangles himself from Draco, sits on his haunches, and starts unbuttoning his own shirt.

Draco stares at his hands with hunger and Harry bites his lip, feeling the low thrum of the Glamour Spells over his skin. His heart is racing, strangely terrified of what he’s about to do and it shouldn’t be a big deal—it feels _right_ , to show them to Draco, to strip himself to his very heart, raw, unabashed, and maybe a little broken. But the thing about Draco is that he gets it—he understands Harry’s special brand of broken—and Harry feels unexpectedly comforted by that. Draco won’t judge him, won’t ask questions, and, for the first time in years, Harry wants to feel _seen_.

He opens his shirt with trembling hands and shucks it off to the side. Draco is quiet, patient. Harry braces himself, feeling his magical core reach out, bend to his will. He finishes the spells with a thought.

Draco lets out a soft gasp.

He doesn’t move, just sits propped up against the headboard and stares, taking Harry in, his eyes roaming over every inch of inked skin, tracing every line and shape with a careful glance. His mouth is slightly open and his breaths are coming out shallow.

“Fuck…” Draco breathes. “Oh my fucking— Oh. Oh, Harry—”

“Is this okay? I—” Harry doesn’t know why he’s so nervous all of the sudden—maybe it’s the scrutiny, the feeling of exposure, but it might be just because it’s Draco.

“Am I—” Draco swallows thickly and exhales. “Am I the first person to ever see them? To ever see you like this?”

Harry looks down at his hands, carefully folded in his lap. “Yeah.” He feels a hot flush crawl up his neck and face, setting him aquiver. He waits.

“Fuck,” Draco says quietly. “Fuck, come here, _come here_ ,” he chokes out and pulls Harry into his lap.

They’re kissing again and Harry feels as if Draco is telling him everything he needs to hear with just his hands, his lips and tongue, with the way he holds him. He doesn’t need any answers, he already knows everything there is to know—they’ve let each other in completely, in ways Harry never thought he would be able to—he’d given Draco his heart a long time ago. Right now, he has also bared his soul, for his lover to cradle in cupped hands and hold it to his chest when it’s too much, when it’s too big and slipping through the cracks, when it threatens to break him from the inside. The only thing left that Harry wants to do, is to share his body with Draco—and he couldn’t imagine it any other way.

“You— like them— _ahhh_!” Harry cries out as Draco wraps his lips around his nipple, teases it with quick, hard flicks of his tongue and Harry’s insides contract with the pleasure of it, the sensation going straight to his cock, now fully hard again.

“Oh my _god_ , Harry—” He moves to the other nipple and sucks it in between his teeth and Harry’s spine arches as if trying to push it further into Draco’s mouth, to get more of whatever he’s giving.

He can hear the clink of a belt buckle and realizes Draco is unbuttoning his jeans for him, watching Harry with wide-eyed devotion and Harry gasps, cants his hips forward, his cock straining against the material, begging to be touched. Draco keeps kissing him as he opens the zipper and Harry moans into his mouth feeling the erection in his pants bob free. A gust of cool air washes over the damp spot of precome at the front and Harry groans and shivers, burying his face in the crook of Draco’s neck, biting down at the first patch of skin he can get his mouth on. Draco’s panting next to his ear and it’s intoxicating to see how turned on he is, how he’s shaking just from the act of undressing him. Harry absently thinks he might go insane if Draco doesn’t touch him soon, and it’s probably their combined arousal rather than any telepathic bond, but his mind goes completely blank when Draco finally touches his cock through his pants, slim fingers wrapping around the throbbing hardness.

“Fuck, _fuckfuckfuck_ , Draco, I—” He babbles urgently, trying to thrust into Draco’s hand as he finds purchase on the headboard.

“I’ve got you,” Draco says, massaging him through the fabric. “God, you’re amazing.”

Harry lets go of the headboard and his hands go to Draco’s belt, shaking a little; Harry doesn’t even need to look at him—the guttural moan Draco let out is invitation enough and Harry makes quick work of Draco’s trousers and pants.

Naked Draco Malfoy is truly a sight to behold—he lies splayed out on the bed for Harry to ogle—pale, toned, and beautiful, and Harry’s skin feels like it’s on fire. The scars on Draco’s chest seem to glisten silver as they reflect the soft light. There’s that path of dark-blond hair below his navel going down to his pubic hair, pulling Harry’s sole focus lower, to Draco’s cock. It lies hard against his stomach, the pinkened head weeping with precome, already smearing it over his abdomen. It’s maybe half an inch shorter than Harry’s but seems thicker and Harry’s stomach lurches with renewed desire at the thought of what Draco could do with it.

Harry stares, transfixed, at all the flushed beauty in front of him when he hears Draco’s strained voice: “Harry. Take off your clothes.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice—Harry pulls his trousers down with his underwear, groaning as it brushes against his cock on its way. Finally naked, he crawls over Draco, stroking his hand over Draco’s thigh and hip, up to his waist and takes his mouth in a bruising kiss. Draco pulls him closer by the hips until Harry falls on top of him and they both cry out in pleasure as their cocks rub against each other in the crook of their hips.

Harry could come like this—rutting against Draco, naked, wet, and hard, moaning with each shallow thrust, his fingers tangled in silver hair that’s now nowhere near as prim as usual. It’s a striking image and it makes Harry’s breath hitch—the way Draco naturally, unabashedly lets go of his propriety, how he has his long legs wrapped around Harry’s waist, how he moans shamelessly and whispers praise into every other kiss, letting his arousal take over and do things that make Harry’s heart lurch and his cock swell. They move together with an unrelenting force, in a deliberate, dragging rhythm and it’s so unbelievably erotic, Harry knows he might let go completely and come very soon, already feeling the heat building up in his groin, his bollocks going tight. He has other ideas for tonight, though—he slowly breaks the kiss and begins to work his way down Draco’s body. He sucks bruises into Draco’s neck and collarbones and peppers featherlight kisses over every single scar. Draco hisses, arching his back, as Harry sucks on a nipple, bringing it to hardness with his tongue and teeth. There are hands gripping Harry’s hair and Draco looks down at him, muttering incoherently about _bloody freckles_ and those turn into a strangled cry when Harry goes lower and, placing a reverent kiss at the jut of Draco’s hipbone, wraps his fingers around that glorious cock.

“Oh my god, Harry, _Harry_ , fuck—” Draco shivers under his touch, trying to keep his hips from thrusting as he clutches the bedsheets.

Harry gives Draco’s cock a few experimental strokes, feeling his mouth water. He has no idea how to go about what he wants to do but wants to try, to _taste it_ nonetheless—he kisses Draco’s abdomen, traces the wiry hairs with his tongue and goes lower, burying his nose in Draco’s pubic hair. It smells surprisingly good—it’s a heady, musky scent mingling with the smell of sweat and something that’s distinctly Draco. Swiping his thumb over the slit of Draco’s cock, Harry looks up to see his stunned expression, spit-slick lips and hooded eyelids. Not taking his eyes off Draco’s, Harry swipes his tongue over the slickened head.

Draco cries out, a strangled moan escaping him as his head lolls backwards, breath speeding up. “Harry, oh my _god_ , oh _fuck_ ,” he chokes out and props himself on his elbow, moving his hand to cup Harry’s face. “Harry. You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” Harry says simply, a little surprised at how raspy his voice sounds. He kisses the side of Draco’s cock. “I just. I’ve never done this before so— Just tell me if it’s bad,” he says, feeling his face go red.

“I—” Draco stammers, probably meaning to say something comforting. He thinks better of it, though, and just nods. “Yeah. All right.”

Harry licks his lips, satisfied with the way Draco drops back onto the pillows with a groan. He comes right back up, apparently keen on watching him and a shiver of excitement washes over Harry—he makes a mental note to look Draco in the eyes as he sucks him. Harry lets go for a second to lick his hand—Draco exhales a long, strained breath as Harry does it, a slow swipe of tongue over his palm, and spreads it all over Draco’s cock in a few lazy strokes. He gives it another tentative taste, licking off the precome beading at the tip, and finds it all right—it has a faint salty-bitter tang to it and it’s not bad, especially with the unholy sounds Draco is making. Harry’s own cock gives a little twitch at that, seeing how the lightest touch takes Draco apart, how the muscles in his thighs contract, and how shallow his breathing is.

Harry carefully watches Draco’s face as he takes the head of his cock into his mouth.

“Oh my go— _oh fuck, ahhh_!” Draco moans, thrusting up into his mouth as he grabs him by the hair and lifts his head back at the same time. It’s somewhat endearing, how Draco tries not to hurt him in any way, so Harry pins him down to the bed by the hips, revelling in the shiver it elicits. He’s not at all experienced in sucking cock but tries to do things he imagines he’d find pleasurable. Circling his tongue around the head, Harry tries to pull more of its length into his mouth, as far as it can go without him choking. He goes back up and repeats it, again, and again, and again, until he hears Draco’s loud, ragged breaths and moans, until his fingers are knitted in Harry’s hair so tight, it sends sparks down his neck. He picks up a rhythm fairly quickly, bobbing his head up and down, and wraps his fingers around the base where it doesn’t fit into his mouth, twisting his wrist on every upstroke, making Draco whimper. Harry looks up at him through the curtain of his eyelashes—there’s a beautiful pink flush spreading over his chest, his mouth open in a breathless moan and it makes Harry’s heart leap, to know that _he’s_ the one to do this to Draco, to make him look so utterly wrecked and whisper things like _gorgeous_ and _amazing_ and _don’t stop_.

Releasing Draco’s cock with a wet pop, he takes one of Draco’s bollocks into his mouth, sucking and teasing it with his tongue, and then switches to the other one—Draco’s almost thrashing, letting out a stream of curses and incoherent praise. Spit and precome dripping down his chin, Harry licks a long, lazy stripe up the length, from the base to the very tip, swirling his tongue around the head and sucking it lightly into his mouth. The thick, hard weight on Harry’s tongue is intoxicating; he can feel every vein curling under the silky-smooth skin and he can almost smell Draco’s arousal—teasing the slit with a few hard flicks of his tongue, Harry feels Draco’s whole body vibrate under his hands, hears him cry out in unabashed rapture. Then, without warning, he sinks down on Draco’s cock as far as he can go, taking all of it until it hits the back of his throat.

“Don’t go so deep— _ohmygod_ —Harry!—” Draco’s words come out very fast as he struggles to breathe and talk. “You’ll hurt yourself—ahhh, _fuckfuck_!”

Harry goes up, his lips stretched in a devious smile around the girth, and slides back down, relaxing his throat and swallowing around the head. The moan Draco lets out is downright _sinful_ as he cards shaking fingers through Harry’s mess of dark hair. It gets easier with every downstroke and Draco’s broken whimpers only spur him on, making his cock leak onto the sheets every time Draco sobs in pleasure.

Harry lets go to come up for air, his jaw getting a little sore. There’s a string of saliva stretching out between his lower lip and the tip of Draco's cock and Draco watches as it breaks and his cock slaps wetly against his abdomen.

“Fuck, Harry—” he breathes, not entirely present, his eyes unfocused with arousal. “Oh my— Fuck, get _back here_ , oh my fucking—” He gasps and drags Harry up by the hair until they’re face to face and kisses him, completely unbothered by where Harry’s mouth has just been. A spark of arousal goes down his body as Draco groans into his mouth, probably feeling his own taste on Harry’s tongue, as he keeps a possessive hand tangled in the hair at the back of Harry’s neck.

“Amazing—” He praises, shaking with the intensity of it, peppering kisses all over Harry’s face, his hands roaming over Harry’s back and kneading his arse. “You’re _perfect_ , fuck, Harry, I—”

“I want you,” Harry whispers, his heart hammering in his chest with the implication of what he’s about to ask.

Draco kisses him again, soft and sweet. “How do you want me?”

“I—” His nerves taking the better of him, Harry trails off and kisses Draco again, once, twice. “I want—” Draco looks at him, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear. “Inside me,” Harry whispers right against his lips, “I want you inside me.”

Draco swallows the words with another kiss and Harry half-expects him to ask if he’s sure or to say something nice and tender but Draco thinks better of it and shifts them so he’s on top of Harry. “Yeah. All right,” he says simply, privately. “Turn over for me. On your stomach.” He says the words so softly, Harry can’t help but stare in complete adoration, his heart leaping out of his chest.

They sit up, finding it hard to stop kissing or keep their hands off each other. Shivers of anticipation are making Harry’s skin crawl and he feels hot, almost unable to breathe—Draco is going to fuck him. Draco is going to… make love to him, Harry supposes, and the thought makes him almost giddy, and maybe it’s cheap and cliché but Harry couldn’t care less, not with the way Draco holds him and murmurs how amazing he tastes between kisses. Harry lies down and notices Draco slipped a pillow under his hips—it’s a rather exposed position, to be so intimately on display, but Draco is over him in seconds, planting slow kisses all over his shoulders and back, and his nerves dissolve, leaving space for pure, unadulterated pleasure.

“Beautiful,” Draco whispers as he kisses down Harry’s back. He dips his tongue in each dimple below, eliciting a gasp from Harry. He can already feel his cock hard and leaking, tucked between his hip and the pillow and whimpers, trying to find some friction against the impossibly smooth sheets. “Shh,” Draco gently admonishes, “let me take care of you.”

Draco kisses him all over—back, shoulder blades, each rib marked with a touch of lips, he traces Harry’s spine with his tongue, making him shake and moan, his hands brush every inch of skin and knead the flesh of his arse. Anticipation slowly builds under Harry’s skin, arousal simmers low in his belly, and he sighs in pleasure, relaxing into the touch of Draco’s skilled hands. His whole world is reduced to that unbearably good feeling, to Draco’s lips and tongue on his body, to his hands and fingers that dip a little further between his cheeks with each brush, easing Harry into the touch.

Draco cups his arse with one hand, dipping his middle finger a little deeper, and just keeps it there, slowly brushing his hole and Harry moans, low, into the pillow. There’s a ghost of breath next to his ear and Draco nips on his lobe, soothing the spot with his tongue.

“I’m going to cast a few spells,” he whispers into Harry’s ear, sending sparks down his back. “Protection, cleansing, lubrication,” he says, “is that all right?”

Harry just nods, not lifting his head, and feels the familiar tingle of magic wash over him, including the spot where Draco’s finger is.

“I want you to tell me if you want to stop,” Draco murmurs, positioning himself a little lower. “At any point. Promise me, Harry.”

“Yeah,” Harry breathes, thinking he never wants Draco to stop touching him. “Yeah, okay.”

“Good,” Draco says and places one last kiss to Harry’s neck. “Try to relax,” he adds softly.

Harry wants to laugh because he’s nearly losing the feeling in his legs as Draco’s palms over his skin, going lower and lower. His nerves are string-taut as he holds his breath, not really sure what to expect or what the etiquette is here but all that goes very foggy very fast, when Draco lightly bites and kisses his arse cheek. Harry gasps, arching his back and hiding his face in the pillow—his thighs open on instinct and he feels a little bashful, to be already begging for it so openly, but hears Draco groan behind him and brush the insides of his thighs with delicate fingertips. When Draco sucks a wet kiss to the sensitive skin, Harry whimpers, digging his fingers into the sheets. His toes curl in pleasure and then, he feels Draco’s lips going higher, just a little higher with every melting kiss.

And then, Draco swipes the tip of his tongue along the place where his arse cheeks meet. A long, shallow lick right up to his tailbone. And Harry is ruined.

He doesn’t realise how loud his moan is, or how hard he bucks into the touch. He can’t fully believe what Draco is about to do, either—Harry knows it’s not uncommon, perhaps he sometimes even wondered what it would feel like, he just never expected it could happen to him. All he can think about is how blindingly good it just felt and how he immediately wants Draco to do it again, and again. Draco lets out a low chuckle and murmurs praise against his skin, kissing the spot he just licked, and Harry can’t stop his legs from shaking and tries to arch his back just a little more, silently begging Draco doesn’t change his mind.

“That okay?” Draco asks, massaging his arse. “Not too much, I hope?”

“Fuck, Draco,” Harry manages to choke out, twisting and straining under his hands. “Please. Fuck, please, yes, _ohmygod_ , yes,” he babbles, feeling his cock harden at the very thought of Draco doing it again, of Draco _eating_ him.

Draco doesn’t say anything else, just licks another deliberate, wet stripe over his arse. And then Harry cries out as Draco pulls his cheeks apart with his thumbs and slowly drags his tongue over his hole.

Harry’s brain goes to autopilot as pleasure takes over—he’s incoherent, he’s moaning and whimpering and it’s so unbearably good, he might come from just that. Draco laves his hole with hot, deliberate licks, still holding his cheeks apart, his stubble scratching Harry’s over-sensitised skin. All he can focus on is just pushing back as far as he can with little twitches of his thighs, baring himself to the white-hot bliss that threatens to tear him apart, to the way Draco groans in pleasure as if he’s getting off on it just as much as Harry is. He hoists Harry up by the hips so he’s kneeling on the bed with his legs spread shamelessly, face buried in the pillows. Harry moves his arms, searching for something to hold on to, and Draco’s hand finds his, guiding it to the back of his head.

Harry tangles his fingers in the white-blond hair and hears Draco moan as he grabs it and then pushes Draco’s face and that sinful, brilliant tongue just exactly where he wants it, where he _needs_ it so desperately, his cock keeps leaking precome, hanging hard and heavy between his legs.

Just as Harry thinks it can’t get any better, as he pushes eagerly into the wet heat, Draco opens his mouth around his hole and sucks, and then Harry’s vision goes black around the edges as he feels the tip of Draco’s tongue slip inside him. He bucks his hips, a broken sob escaping his mouth, and squeezes his eyes shut pushing back even harder. Draco eats him relentlessly, with a visceral hunger in every hot stab of tongue breaching the ring of muscle, panting and groaning, blunt fingernails digging into Harry’s arse. Draco’s virtually fucking him with his tongue and Harry takes it like he was made for it, begs for more with his hand clutched in Draco’s hair guiding him as deep as he can go, sobbing in ecstasy as his hole stretches around that impossible heat.

Harry feels he’s getting closer with each lick, his cock wet, and red, and begging to be touched. He immediately whimpers at the loss of pressure when Draco leans back for a moment and hears a whispered spell. And then, there’s a lubed finger rubbing a slow, gentle circle over his hole. When Draco slips it in to the first knuckle, Harry lets out a hoarse moan, his legs going weak at the incredible burning pleasure, feeling himself stretch and adjust to the intrusion.

“Oh my god, Harry,” Draco whispers behind him, warm breath ghosting over Harry’s skin. “If you could see yourself, god, you’re beautiful.”

Harry can only mewl in response and weakly push back, asking for more, and Draco obliges, pressing his finger deeper and pulling it out. He repeats the motion until Harry’s shallow breaths get louder and louder in the silent room, until he’s about to pass out. “Draco, more,” he sobs, “please, fuck, fuck, _more_.”

“So good,” Draco coos, “you’re amazing, you’re doing so good.” He pulls his finger out, repeats the spell and pushes in again, this time with two.

“ _Fuck!_ Yes, _yesyesyes,_ oh my god, ahhh!” Harry whines, as his cock twitches and he bites down on the pillow he’s lying on, and twists his fingers into the fabric not to touch himself right now. The unbearable drag of pleasure is just too good, he wants it to last, wants Draco to keep fingering and stretching him until he can take his cock and they can come together and Harry’s adamant to hold it in just a little bit longer.

All those plans go out the window when Draco changes the angle a bit, crooks his fingers just an inch, and Harry’s vision goes white.

He screams as a paralysing stab of pleasure wracks through his body; Harry’s half-aware of the spot Draco just touched and he’s still convulsing with aftershocks as Draco does it again, and again, humming contentedly and holding him by the hips. Harry doesn’t notice when the third finger is added, he just mindlessly pushes against Draco’s fingers, letting out a stream of curses and pleas. Draco’s other hand is gently massaging the small of his back, and he’s kissing the knobs of his spine while mercilessly driving his fingers into that bundle of nerves, timing it with Harry’s desperate thrusts.

“Draco, Draco, fuck, I can’t—” He chokes out, struggling to breathe or think, feeling his bollocks tighten and knowing he’s not going to last. “I’m going to—ah, ah, ah, _fuck_ —”

“Let go,” Draco whispers, “oh _god_ , you’re incredible, let go for me,” he urges him on and Harry feels the wet head of Draco’s cock as he presses it against his thigh, and it’s so _hard_ , as if just seeing Harry like that is an unbelievable turn-on for him. Draco rubs against him, hissing at the pressure, and keeps fucking his fingers into Harry, keeps whispering strained encouragements.

Harry doesn’t see it coming—everything is a little blurry, he’s drunk with pleasure and at some point, his body just gives up, driven higher and higher until he can’t hold it anymore and then, he’s coming. There’s sweat beading on his forehead and at the back of his neck, his thighs hurt from exertion and it feels like falling, all his senses are attuned to Draco as he milks his orgasm out of him. Harry sees his come shooting in white ribbons onto Draco’s nice sheets as he cries out and Draco holds him through it with that soft, grounding hand rubbing his back. He slowly pulls his fingers out and Harry’s can only whimper and clench around the space they leave. Exhausted, he’s about to plop down onto the wet spot but Draco catches him and moves them to the side, taking advantage of the huge bed, and he’s on Harry in seconds, kissing him so deeply, it punches the breath out of him. Harry can only open his mouth and groan as Draco swallows the sound and runs shaking fingers through Harry’s hair.

Harry wants to melt into him. His throat is sore, there are tears in the corners of his eyes, and Harry is so in love he could die.

He feels the hot length of Draco’s cock, still hard at the jut of his hip, feels his own give an interested twitch. He feels empty and _greedy_ , and Harry thinks that if he doesn’t get to see Draco come apart soon, he might as well combust.

“Draco,” he whispers. “Do it. Please.”

Draco pauses and stares, his pupils swallowing nearly all the grey in his eyes.

Harry shifts under him and manages to wrap his legs around Draco’s waist. “Fuck me,” he mouths right against Draco’s lips, “I can come again, I want to see you,” he pleads and twitches his hips to make good on his promise, his cock already starting to fill again.

Draco watches him for maybe a second more and then he’s moving, positioning himself on top of Harry and looking him straight in the eyes. “You're going to kill me,” he whispers and gasps softly as the tip of his cock catches on Harry’s abused hole. He casts that lubricating spell again—Harry finds it incredibly hot that he can somehow do it wandless—and covers his cock in the pleasant-smelling gel, hissing as he touches himself. There’s a primal hunger in the way he looks at Harry as he lines himself up and buries his cock inside him in one smooth push.

They both moan into the other’s mouth and Harry gulps for air at the overwhelming feeling of _fullness,_ the delicious stretch and burn of Draco’s cock inside him. It hurts only for the first few seconds, the initial discomfort quickly dissipating.

Draco doesn’t move yet—he bites down on Harry’s shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut. “Fuck, Harry, oh _fuckfuckfuck—”_ he gasps, propping himself up on shaking arms. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” Harry whispers, slowly adjusting to it, clenching experimentally and earning himself a broken whimper from Draco.

“You’re so tight, oh my god, you feel so good,” Draco chokes out and kisses him messily and Harry can feel him shaking and trying so hard to stay put, to make absolutely sure he’s not going to hurt him and something hot and consuming clenches inside his chest. He tucks a stray lock of white hair behind Draco’s ear and cups his cheek, brushing it with his thumb. “I love you. Now, move.”

Draco pulls him into a hot, tight embrace as he slowly starts to move his hips. Every single push, every gasp and moan make his toes curl and his breath hitch. Draco is over him, inside him, around him, the sizzling-hot pleasure almost splitting him in half, and Harry has never, not in his wildest fantasies, thought sex with someone would feel this way. It’s overwhelming, it’s intoxicating, the way Draco looks at him as he pushes inside only heightening the sensation, and Harry pulls him in for a deep, filthy kiss. It only spurs Draco on to pick up the pace as he fucks him harder and faster, letting out a stream of soft gasps, a litany of _ah, ah, ah, ah_ mingling with Harry’s choked sobs. The angle slightly shifts then, Draco’s cock brushing against his prostate with every other thrust and Harry is hard and leaking against his abdomen again. He crosses his ankles at the small of Draco’s back to leverage himself and pushes back in time with his thrusts, moaning softly with every tantalising thrust.

They’re going faster and faster, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh obscenely arousing, and they kiss every few seconds to ground themselves in the moment, to make sure it’s all real. It’s so unbelievably intimate, giving himself over to Draco, and Harry realises it was never scary, it’s just wonderful, and _right_ , and Draco’s face is open and flushed and _beautiful_ and Harry kisses him more, just because he can.

He can feel his second orgasm getting closer as Draco’s movements turn erratic; their spit-slick lips brush against each other and Harry wants to drown in Draco’s soft sobs as he chases his release. He takes Harry’s cock in his hand and, smearing lube and precome all over its length, strokes him in time with his thrusts, the wet sound alone making Harry moan into Draco’s mouth. Draco’s shaking, his cock pulsing inside Harry, and it only takes a few more thrusts until Harry’s coming all over his stomach, a few drops reaching his chest. He whimpers in absolute bliss as Draco pushes once, twice, and then comes inside him with a wrecked, guttural moan.

He gracelessly flops on top of Harry, completely unbothered by all the come now sticking to their sweat-drenched chests, and Harry doesn’t mind the solid, hot weight—he wraps his arms around Draco, unable to move even an inch more, his legs turned into jelly.

They lie like that for a few minutes, completely spent and breathing heavily, and Harry groans as Draco’s cock slips out of him. He has never felt so sated, so completely wrung out in the best possible way, and his heart has never leapt quite so much in his life.

They had sex. They _made love_.

Sod it, he likes calling it that. Draco will roll his eyes at him and look away, and blush when he thinks Harry isn’t looking.

Draco rolls off of him and Harry whimpers at the loss of his delicious, comforting heat. It doesn’t last long, though—Draco immediately takes Harry into his arms and kisses him with a satisfied sigh, hand moving down in between his arse cheeks. Harry blushes for some ridiculous reason—Draco’s _tongue_ has been there, for the love of Merlin—and hides his face in the crook of Draco’s neck. Draco chuckles, low and intimate, kissing his temple and cleaning their chests.

“Are you very sore?” He murmurs against Harry’s hair, fingering him leisurely and slow. Not to go another round, neither of them would be capable of such a feat at the moment, it’s just strangely comforting and intimate, to have that empty, uncomfortable feeling squashed for just a while, to ease the transition. Harry mewls softly as Draco fingers his own come back inside him and it shouldn’t be so hot, or make him feel claimed but in that moment, it makes his breath hitch.

“M’alright,” he purrs, kissing Draco’s neck.

“Good,” Draco says, “You were… amazing. Beautiful,” he whispers.

“You’re beautiful,” Harry grumbles, feeling his face burn.

“And you’re ridiculous. And—” Draco takes a breath. “And I’m so in love with you I can’t _breathe_ , and—”

Harry kisses him and he wants to laugh like a maniac. “I know.”

Draco smiles softly and then it turns mischievous. “You never got to tell me how that date went.”

“Obnoxiously perfect,” Harry says and Draco snorts.

“Perfect not good enough for you?”

“I already had _my_ perfect,” he says, scooting a little closer.

“So who’s going to the wedding with Harry Potter?” Draco murmurs, biting down a smile.

“His boyfriend,” Harry says airily. “A right prat, but devastatingly gorgeous.”

“I’m sure he’ll consider it if he’s asked properly.”

Harry laughs and kisses him, slow, deep, and tender. When they part, he groans against Draco’s lips.

“What?”

“You’re going to look _so good_ in a suit,” he complains, “and I’ll have _best man duties_.”

Draco chuckles. “I’m sure you’ll… find a way.” He adjusts them into a more comfortable position, wrapping himself around Harry’s back and kissing the back of his neck. “Now, get some sleep, all right?”

While Draco’s soft, calm breathing lulls him to sleep, Harry remembers how he once thought Draco’s hands were made to hold fragile things. Nestling himself tighter into the cradle of his body, Harry thinks that it just might include his heart, too.

  


* * *

  


Harry wakes up naked, enveloped in the delicious warmth of another body wrapped around his. The morning sunlight is just barely peeking into the bedroom through the closed curtains, casting the space in a dreamlike golden glow. Next to him, Draco is still asleep with his arms wrapped around Harry’s waist, his mop of white-gold hair spilling across Harry's chest.

Careful not to wake Draco up, Harry shifts a little and winces—a certain place on his body is slightly sorer now than it was last night and although he didn’t expect to feel it in the morning, Harry bites his lip, thinking about what happened. He looks down at Draco’s peaceful face and something warm and tranquil floods Harry’s chest at the sight—Draco’s slightly parted lips, a trail of purplish lovebites going down his neck and disappearing under the covers, his pale eyelashes gleaming in the sunlight like the lightest of feathers. Harry feels him breathe as Draco lies flush against him, feels his slender fingers lightly resting against his ribs. Burying his nose in those silvery locks, Harry inhales the familiar, calming scent of lemon and sage and smiles into Draco’s hair, thinking how unbelievably lucky he is.

Out of nowhere, Harry thinks he will never need to see a vial of Amortentia in his life, to know exactly how it’s going to smell.

Draco stirs, letting out a small grumble and Harry tries not to laugh too loud—Draco hates getting up early on weekends. Nevertheless, there’s now one silver eye peeking at him from behind a golden curtain and Harry feels a soft kiss being planted on his sternum.

“Good morning,” Draco murmurs. He slowly props himself up on Harry’s chest and smiles softly as Harry runs a hand through his hair, leaning into the touch. 

“Hi,” Harry whispers. “You can go back to sleep, it’s still early.”

Draco’s smile widens to a smirk. “ _Or_ , I don’t go back to sleep,” he purrs, “and we go take a shower. And I—”

“That would be brilliant,” Harry says, running his thumb over Draco’s lower lip. “But we’re getting some breakfast first. And then, remember we have lunch with our friends. It was at two, I think?”

Draco groans. “Shit, I forgot. You’ve sucked my brains out Potter, it’s all your fault,” he adds playfully and Harry snorts.

“Not for the last time, I hope,” he grins and tucks his hand under Draco’s chin. “Come here.”

“ _No_ ,” he shakes his head and rolls his eyes at Harry’s puzzled look. “Morning breath?”

“You’re insane if you think I care,” Harry quips and rolls them over until he’s on top of Draco. “Get used to it,” he murmurs, smiling softly.

“I—” Draco stares at him, wide-eyed, and Harry kisses him with a laugh.

Their good morning kiss turns into a full-on snogging session full of soft laughs, warm lips and roaming hands. It doesn’t go any further than that, for now—the initial urgency has been sated, the overwhelming need to have each other _right now_ has turned into a non-stop buzz of pleasant anticipation. The knowledge that they have time, that there’s no rush to fall into bed together once again is far more intoxicating than some looming fear that their first time could be the last one. The urgency will be back—every night, every time they kiss and touch, every day counting from today. Harry wonders if that’s what security feels like.

Harry gets up first, laughing as he leaves Draco hot and bothered in bed, puts his underwear on and goes to the kitchen to make breakfast. When Draco finally joins him, he’s only wearing a pair of designer black boxers that hug his arse so nicely, Harry almost burns himself with a hot pan.

Draco frowns, sniffing around the kitchen. He shuffles towards Harry and wraps his arms around Harry’s waist, hooking his chin over Harry’s shoulder. “What are you making?”

Harry feels his cheeks burn as Draco plants a light kiss on his shoulder. “Pancakes,” he says and clears his throat. “Cinnamon. Because—”

He pauses as Draco’s fingers wrap around his wrist. He gently guides Harry’s hands so he plates the last pancake and turns the stove off. And then, Draco pulls him away, turns them and promptly devours Harry against the kitchen counter.

“You remembered,” Draco whispers against his mouth, not giving Harry any time to respond, diving back in and coaxing a moan out of him. He hoists Harry up onto the counter to bring them closer together and Harry groans as he wraps his legs around him. “Of course, I remembered,” he breathes, baring his neck for Draco to mark.

“You’re impossible,” he growls, sucking on Harry’s Adam's apple. “Shower. Now.”

Arousal spikes through Harry as their clothed erections rub together. “What about breakfast?” He asks weakly.

“Are you a wizard or not?” Draco says urgently, moving to suck on his nipple. Harry gasps and buries his hand in Draco’s hair. “Cast a Stasis Spell before I Apparate us to the bathroom _right this second_.”

Harry somehow manages it without his wand and Draco drags him through the flat, deciding he’d rather grope Harry against several walls in favour of Apparating.

He fucks Harry for nearly an hour, hot and slow, pressed against the shower wall with rivulets of hot water dripping down on them, easing Harry’s sore muscles. He ends up sobbing and shaking with pleasure as Draco slams into him from behind with one arm around Harry’s torso, the other holding him by the jaw. It’s wet, steamy, and perfect—by the end, Draco turns him around and Harry comes all over their chests, with his back against the tiled wall and thighs around Draco’s waist.

They dry off, and only after Draco’s sure Harry isn’t hurt and okay to walk, they finally have the pancakes Harry made—Draco sits on the counter with Harry standing in the vee of his legs. Harry absently thinks it has to be one of the best mornings of his life and at some point, finds himself planning the next ones they could have. Judging by the look in Draco’s eyes, as they laugh, and talk, and eat, Harry’s not the only one. Amused, he remembers how he once wondered about Draco’s posh clothes—it took just one night together to discover that Draco Malfoy doesn’t, in fact, shower in a suit. And he doesn’t sleep in dress robes. He sleeps, and showers, and walks around the bedroom completely, gloriously nude, striking, pale and gorgeous, and Harry adds that fact to his list with a goofy smile.

The lunch with the gang is at two and Harry realizes he doesn’t have a change of clothes around midday. It takes him almost an hour to disentangle himself from a very naked, very sulky Draco who tries to keep him in bed using the dirtiest tricks in his Slytherin arsenal.

“I’ll just Apparate to Grimmauld to change, and I’ll see you there,” Harry says as he kisses Draco for the hundredth time that morning and smiles at his grumpy face.

“I don’t understand why you can’t borrow something of mine,” Draco grumbles with a dramatic sigh.

Harry blushes. Wearing Draco’s clothes was something he would definitely enjoy and he files it for later. “Because you only own bespoke tailoring—” Harry kisses him, “—and I’m not wearing a three-piece suit to lunch.”

“You wouldn’t even wear one to a funeral,” Draco deadpans.

Harry pauses and shrugs. “My point.”

He gets dressed, snorting at Draco’s dramatic eyerolls. When Harry is finally ready to go, Draco gets up, still stark naked, and comes up to him. It’s strangely attractive to see him like that while being fully dressed, if only he didn’t seem slightly subdued, almost shy, when he speaks in a low voice. “They’re going to ask how that date went.”

It dawns on Harry then—why Draco is reluctant to let him go, why he’s so clingy all of a sudden, what that serious glance actually means, and Harry’s heart stutters. He promises himself to make sure Draco will never have to doubt his feelings and the idea is so ridiculous in itself, Harry chuckles. “Which one?”

Draco bites his lip and his eyebrow crease makes a guest appearance. “Harry, I understand if you—”

“No,” Harry says immediately, feeling a fierce protectiveness creep under his skin. “I’m not hiding this. You. Us.” He cups Draco’s cheek with one hand. “How many times do I have to say I love you until you believe me?” Draco opens his mouth and Harry continues quietly. “As long as it’s okay with you, we’re telling them.”

Draco stares at him like he hung the stars and Harry’s stomach flutters like it’s made of butterflies. Finally, the crease is gone and Dracos’ lips curve in a small smile. “They’re going to lose their minds, you know.”

“You must admit it’s going to be fun to watch.”

“I suppose you have a point,” Draco chuckles.

Harry kisses him chastely. “I’ll see you in an hour, yeah?”

Just as he’s at the door, Harry remembers something and quickly runs back to the bedroom—Draco’s still there, now with underwear on. Harry crosses the room in a few quick strides and before Draco can ask what on earth he’s still doing here, Harry kisses him one more time, deep and slow. “I love you.”

He leaves Draco’s flat and it feels like he’s walking on clouds.


	7. Chapter 7

“Can we order already?” Ron whines, leaning his head against the booth with a pained sigh, like a martyr starving for a greater cause. He casts a sorrowful look at a passing waitress carrying a tray of appetisers.

“Love, you had a chocolate bar on the way here,” Hermione looks at him in admonishment. “I honestly think you’ll be fine for a few more minutes, we’re just waiting for Harry.”

“You’re so gross,” Ginny grimaces, looking at her brother with disgust. “We could tie a bag of food around your neck, you know, like the ones horses have?” Next to her, Neville snorts into his glass.

Ron’s face goes crimson and he makes a face at her. “I tried carrying food around, they kick you out of restaurants if you come in with a sandwich,” he grumbles. “You can’t blame a guy for being hungry!”

On the other side of the table, Luna is peacefully reading the latest Quibbler, completely out of the conversation and in her own world. Dean and Seamus raise their glasses at Ron, both wearing amused expressions, and Hermione looks at her fiance as if she is questioning her general life choices. All of them are nursing various drinks and nobody seems to care that it’s a Sunday afternoon—if they can’t day drink while they’re still young, those lunches wouldn’t be any different from ordering a pizza at home.

Draco looks down at his wine glass, then at the clock over the entrance. He swallows thickly.

“Why is Harry so late anyway?” Dean asks, fiddling with the menu. “It’s been, like, what? Half an hour?”

Draco would like to know, too, but he remains silent and tries to school his expression into something casual without looking constipated.

“Well,” Ginny pipes up with a sly smile, “he might have had a date last night.”

_Oh, he had one all right._

Hermione turns to her with a grin. “Ginny! You didn’t!”

“I absolutely did and I have a good feeling about this one,” she says and takes a sip of her strawberry daiquiri. “It’s so exhausting, to be always right.”

Draco takes a grave gulp of his wine, trying really hard not to burst out laughing. He can’t say anything yet, he wouldn’t take away the opportunity from Harry, to see their friends’ faces. There’s also a small part of him that’s terrified Harry’s not going to show up because he has changed his mind about everything in the last hour, but Draco likes to be a rational man in most situations. Even though discovering that his years-long infatuation with the Prat who Lived is very much mutual could not, by any standards, be considered ‘most situations’. He absently wonders if all the sex they had in the last sixteen-or-so hours has anything to do with his absent-mindedness. The mindblowing, toe-curling, heartstopping sex with the man he’s so in love with, it might honestly kill him one day. In moments like this, Draco curses his light complexion because he’s quite certain his face is now the colour of the Hogwarts Express. He fiddles with the top button of his shirt and feels a sting of pain from what Draco knows is a large purplish love bite, courtesy of Harry. The ones above the collar are all Glamoured—Draco wouldn’t dream of getting rid of them for reasons he can’t quite put a name to, he just knows his stomach flutters at the very memory of Harry’s lips latched onto his neck. And many other places, too.

Taking another sip, Draco tries to focus on something un-sexy: coasters. Coasters are nice. Napkins. Completely unappealing. Weasley. Weasley’s hair.

Weasley suddenly speaks, making Draco jump. “So I guess the bet is over? How many do we have?”

Hermione counts them out loud on her fingers. “Luna, Ron and I, Neville, and now Ginny, I suppose. That’s four I know of.”

“What about you, Malfoy? I expected you’d know some eligible gays,” Seamus asks, looking at Draco with curiosity.

Draco glares at him. “Yes, because we have a bloody network all across London?” He hisses.

Luna takes his hand that rests on the table, not taking her eyes off the magazine. It immediately calms him down even though Draco knows perfectly well she does it for exactly that reason. She has a strange, disarming power over him and Draco has long given up on figuring out why—he’s just grateful. If only she could also stifle that ugly tugging feeling in his chest, or make Harry bloody show up already, he would honestly hug her right there and then.

He takes another look at the clock. Two thirty-five. He’s not worried.

“No but seriously, you didn’t have a candidate?” Ginny asks.

"Actually, I did," Draco says haughtily. Sod it, he’s either going to be right and get to see their faces or he’s going to be wrong and forced to leave the country and cut all ties with the people he knows, so the risk could be considered non-existent at this point. Draco very much hopes it’s the former rather than the latter.

“What?” Hermione exclaims. "Why didn't you say anything?”

“Who was it?" Neville asks, frowning.

“I’m… going to sit back and let Potter tell you everything,” Draco says cryptically, feeling hot under his collar.

"I bet it went awfully," Weasley says wryly. “That’s why he’s not telling. Let me guess, it was some pure-blood prick,” he _tsks_ and shakes his head. “I thought you knew better.”

“Or maybe a total nerd!” Ginny laughs.

“Or a stuck-up rich boy, Malfoy definitely knows some,” Dean shrugs with a smile.

“You’re all awful,” Hermione cuts in, shaking her head in admonishment.

Draco chuckles, swirling the wine in his glass. "I suppose that person is all of those things. But I'd like to think they're not only that."

“Well that’s mysterious,” Ginny eyes him with suspicion.

"We need to wait for Harry anyway, he has to decide who wins,” Seamus says, taking a swig of his beer.

Draco derangedly thinks what is about to go down in this little, unassuming bistro. They didn’t discuss how they were going to break the news and while Draco logically knows Harry wouldn’t change his mind, he finds himself fidgeting—it’s ridiculous, knowing that these people are their friends and he’s almost certain they would not have a problem with it. His heart skips a beat at the memory of Harry using the word ‘boyfriend’ last night—it’s apparently what they are now and Draco isn’t sure he wants to laugh, cry, scream or do all three. Harry told him he _loved_ him. Draco smiles.

“I think it's safe to say I win the pool,” he says calmly, trying not to grin too much.

Weasley scoffs at that. “No fucking way he's won. I refuse to believe Malfoy of all people had the best candidate.”

“Believe what you will, Weasley,” Draco says airily “In the end, I will thoroughly enjoy seeing your freckled face adorned with defeat.”

“Well, I’ll be—” Ron splutters, “enjoying—seeing you burn!”

Draco snorts and downs his glass. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go get another glass while we wait, I can’t talk to him sober.”

He stands and walks up to the bar to examine the, frankly lacking, wine selection, when there’s movement in his peripheral vision. The bell above the door chimes and Draco’s stomach jumps when it’s none other than Harry. He walks in, smiling at a waitress, and immediately notices Draco standing by the bar. His heart does that stuttering thing it’s been doing since Harry came to his flat last night and he wonders if he should get it checked out. Before he can collect his raging thoughts, Harry smiles at him, the most beautiful smile Draco’s ever seen, and starts to walk in his direction.

There’s a barely noticeable limp to his step and Draco helplessly thinks Harry is probably still a bit sore after last night, and then their shower in the morning. He might even still be a little stretched, and Draco wills his cock to stay down, trying not to think how little it would take to slide back inside him, how devastatingly tight and brilliant it would be, to have Harry moaning and pliant under his hands again.

Harry comes up and stands close, facing Draco.

“Hi,” he says, a little breathless. His cheeks are flushed from the wind, his hair is in complete disarray, and Draco wants to Apparate them straight back to his flat, preferably right onto the bed. His mind is immediately assaulted with images from last night, of those very locks tangled between his fingers, of spit-slick lips and intricate tattoos, of breathy moans and whispered promises.

“Hi,” Draco chokes out, feeling his face burn.

Harry stares at him in mild amusement and Draco decides he will keep fidgeting until Harry says or does something, anything, to indicate it’s okay. He needs some kind of a sign he’s even allowed to touch Harry now, and it’s idiotic, they were always so close, physically, and now Draco is scared to think what would happen if he took Harry’s hand.

“I missed you,” Harry says in a low voice; Draco would laugh it off if he only didn’t feel exactly the same. Last night was nowhere near enough, he thinks, perhaps no amount of nights with Harry will ever be enough.

They’re very close. Draco can count Harry’s freckles and he makes a mental note to do it with his lips at one point, seeing that Harry has them in other places, too. Before Draco can weigh out the pros and cons of the situation, before he decides what the fuck they ought to do right now, Harry just smiles and leans in.

As soon as Harry’s mouth is on his, all worry evaporates from Draco’s thoughts, leaving space for what’s important—Harry. He focuses on the soft, warm press of lips and the faintest hint of tongue, and the way Harry _tastes_ , just like he did last night. It doesn’t get as heated as Draco would want it to, not in a public place—there’s a debilitating sweetness to it, though, and maybe the tiniest hint of possessiveness, it’s Harry claiming him for everyone to see, unashamed, happy and confident.

“That okay?” Harry whispers right against his lips, soft and private. “Sorry if—”

“No. It’s—” Draco lets out a shaky breath he was holding and, at a loss for words, dives back in and kisses Harry one, two, three more times, sweet and gentle, and Harry’s laughing and their hands find their way to each other, and Harry’s cupping Draco’s face with the other. When they part, Draco realises all the chatter coming from their table has died down.

“They’re staring,” Harry murmurs with an impish smile.

“I reckon they’ll start screaming very soon if we don’t go and join them,” Draco whispers back and Harry chuckles.

“Let’s go, then.”

Draco takes his wine from the bartender and Harry takes his free hand. Together, they approach their still deadly silent friends.

Weasley looks like he’s been hit with that Snail-Spewing Curse all over again—a little ashen, a little shocked. Granger looks decidedly less shocked, watching them approach with a mirthful expression. Luna, bless her soul, is still engrossed in that Quibbler she brought, however, Ginevra is slowly shaking her head with that infuriating, knowing smile. Longbottom is wearing a very similar one, and Thomas and Finnigan are raising their glasses in a toast.

They sit down and Harry immediately places his hand on Draco’s thigh—it’s surprisingly grounding and sends a wave of comforting warmth all over his body. Everyone is still watching them like a hive mind that has collectively decided to let either Harry or Draco speak first. Waiting.

Draco huffs in amusement. “So. Harry’s here,” he says, content with the unassuming tone of his voice.

“We’ve noticed,” Ginny says calmly, smirking like a true Harpy.

“Glad you’ve already said hello,” Dean smiles and takes a gulp of his beer.

“So that date yesterday—” Hermione laughs but Ron cuts her off.

“All right. Just— Wait. Everyone, wait,” he says, watching the group with a strange intensity and zoning in on Draco and Harry. “Just, please— Tell me: did you lot know about this?” He wiggles a finger between the two of them, looking at his fiancee almost pleadingly.

“Nope.”

“No idea.”

“We all just found out.”

“Ron,” Harry pipes up, “I didn’t know until last night,” he says with a furious blush. Draco twines their fingers under the table.

Ron pauses and then snorts. Shaking his head, he takes a large gulp of ale. “Not the only oblivious one, eh?” He smiles wryly, regarding them with a twinkle in his eye. “Guess I have two best men now, that’s wicked.”

“Harry, I’m so happy for you two!” Hermione says in a wet voice, smiling softly. Draco wagers she’d hug them both if it weren’t for the table separating them.

Luna suddenly folds her magazine and puts it away; she then wraps her arms around Draco’s elbow and whispers: “I knew you’d be the best one, Draco.”

He breaks into a small smile. “Thank you, love.”

Suddenly, all their friends are smiling like a bunch of Hufflepuffs who just found a puppy—it’s a little infuriating because Draco is _not_ some adorable crup to gush over, and if it’s also a tremendous relief, well, that’s no-one’s business but his own. And maybe Harry’s. The tension around the table is gone as fast as it appeared and the gang is again chatting and laughing and, surprisingly, not making that big of a fuss.

Draco relaxes in his seat and, feeling brave, smirks at the group. “So about that little bet…”

“Oh bloody hell, Malfoy won, didn’t he?” Weasley whines, already reaching to his pocket.

“As the Muggles say, don’t hate the player, Weasley,” Draco muses, unable to hide his satisfaction. Harry chuckles next to him and kisses his cheek. Draco feels his face getting a little warm but he can definitely get used to Potter being all over him. Especially—

“Oh, wait,” Harry says, looking around. The smirk plastered to his face is worthy of the most dedicated of Slytherins as he speaks in an innocent voice. “Didn’t you all say something about doubling the stakes if I…”

Draco uses all his well-mannered sensibilities to choke on his wine as discreetly as possible. Ron spills his beer, Dean and Seamus grin like madmen. The girls giggle, hiding their faces behind their hands.

“I’ll pay triple if you never mention it again,” Weasley croaks, dabbing napkins at the front of his shirt as the group erupts in laughter.

“You’re going to be the death of me, do you know that?” Draco murmurs into Harry’s ear.

“Are you doing anything tonight?” Harry replies quietly, with a smirk that makes Draco want to rip all his clothes off right here on this table—an image as disturbing as it is enticing.

“I was planning to go to my boyfriend’s house and do _him_ , ideally, but—”

Harry kisses him.

After some good-spirited bantering, they order their lunch and their day together seems like all the ones before it. Only this day is the first where Draco gets to hold Harry’s hand, where he’s allowed to kiss him and go home to spend the night with him. And when nobody's listening, Draco will tell Harry he loves him and Harry will always say it back.

Draco can’t wait for all their next days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much for reading! Please come and scream at me in the comments if you liked the story! You can also say hi on [Tumblr](https://slytherco.tumblr.com/)!

**Author's Note:**

> Brief Harry/Other - Harry shares a brief, chaste kiss with a man he's on a date with. It doesn't last long (and, psst, Harry doesn't like it too much).
> 
> * * *
> 
> 💋 This work is part of the Taste of Smut Fest, a Harry Potter-centered fest dedicated to the five senses: taste, touch, smell, hearing, and sight. 
> 
> If you’ve enjoyed this work, please do shower our content creators with kudos and comments! 💌
> 
> [Please check out the fest's tumblr for more posts and updates](https://tasteofsmut.tumblr.com/)


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